


sleeping lessons

by glim



Series: sleeping lessons [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Christmas, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Holidays, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Teacher-Student Relationship, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-13 17:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12988845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: During the Fall Semester of 2012, Steve Rogers audits a Modern US History course.





	sleeping lessons

**_September_ **

 

The lecture hall is still, cool, and quiet when Steve walks in out of the warm September morning. The lights are dimmed up front, and whoever was teaching in here during the previous class hour must have been using the projector. A handful of students have arrived before him, bent over their schedules or their phones, and only a couple look up when the door thuds shut behind him. 

Right. He can do this. He wants to do this. He wants to spend about an hour and a half, twice a week, just being himself and taking a class in modern American history. He wants to walk into this lecture hall on Tuesday and Thursday morning, sit down somewhere near the back, take notes, and learn how the world has changed around him. 

Steve grabs a print out of the syllabus on his way into the lecture hall and takes a seat towards the back. He doesn’t think he’s particularly recognizable, not when jeans, a tee shirt, sneakers, and a baseball cap look like uniform for most undergrads at NYU this fall. The glasses probably help, and the fact that he didn’t come in too early or too late. He probably looks nervous; he feels nervous as he glances around the lecture hall once more.

Before he goes to sit down, he hears the doors behind him open and shut, and when he turns, the guy who walked in after him offers him a quick nod and smile. Steve hands the other guy a copy of the syllabus, and then feels his chest thrill a little when the guy murmurs 'thanks' and walks away without even looking twice at Steve. 

He supposes somebody will recognize him eventually, probably when he has to rush out of class for a mission and news about Captain America pops up on everyone’s televisions and phones hours later. 

That’s in the future, though. He'll deal with that moment, the recognition and the reveal, when he has to. Right now he just wants to get used to the idea of auditing a college-level history class, maybe meeting some of his classmates, and grabbing a sandwich and coffee after class while he does the first set of readings. 

It turns out it's really easy to be almost completely anonymous in a lecture hall with about a hundred other people. A quick survey of the room as it fills proves that he's not the only non-traditional student. Sure, most of the people in the class look younger than Steve does, but there are a few students in their mid- to late-twenties, and probably a few older than that. He was right, though, about blending in and about more people being concerned about class than about some guy sitting in one of the last rows. Steve spends the few minutes before class filling the margin of a the page in his notebook with aimless doodles.

The class is big enough that the professor doesn't call roll at the start, and Steve won't even need to identify himself or give his name out unless he wants to talk in class. 

Fifteen minutes pass before he realizes, yes, he wants to talk in class. He might even want to move his seat up about a dozen rows to be closer to the center of conversation. 

The professor is probably a few years older than Steve--or, well, right, a few years older than Steve minus the missing years, and something weird catches in Steve's chest when he realizes that. The man teaching the class is about the same age as he would've been if he'd come home from the war, settled back down in New York, got a job out here... 

He's also, Steve comes to realize within another half hour, quiet and serious, but with a quick encouraging smile, and he gets the students in the front rows to start talking to him even as he reviews the main topics addressed in the course. He has the syllabus up on the projector, but he talks without looking back at it too often, and he gestures more often to the syllabus the students have open in front of them than to the one behind him. 

The class lets out early after reviewing the course information and requirements. Steve waits, lingering in his seat after he puts his handouts into his binder, and then taps his pencil nervously against it as he thinks about going to talk to the professor. He's going to have to do so eventually; he might as well get it over with as soon as possible. 

When he stands, a couple students walking toward the back of the lecture hall smile at him, friendly and maybe a little flirty, and Steve flushes and ducks his head. It's been a long time since anyone's smiled at Steve Rogers that way, and, honestly, it's not an altogether bad feeling. 

The moment is enough to distract Steve from the nervousness that wants to settle somewhere between his heart and his stomach as he walks to the front of the lecture hall. Most of the other students have drifted away and their professor is left, shuffling papers into a folder. 

Steve has about a minute of total anonymity left; he might as well use it wisely. 

"That was a great introduction," he says, and offers his hand to the professor. "Dr. Barnes?" 

"Well, not doctor, not quite yet. Thank you, though. Professor's fine, well, even James is fine," he adds, and gives Steve a warm, firm handshake. "Not that I'm going to be able to keep track of the whole class on the first day, but you are--?" 

"Steve... Steven Grant," Steve replies, and pushes down the weird nervous uncertainty. James nods, though, and gives Steve one of his quick smiles. 

"You're... one of the people auditing, right? Non-traditional, undeclared major?" James says, and laughs when Steve looks surprised. "I'm not that good. I just happened to look at the class list this morning, and pulled the audit list separately to see how many exams I wouldn't have to grade." 

"Okay, I'm still kind of impressed. And you don't know, I might write those exams and papers anyway." When James smiles and groans, Steve can't help but smile, too. He rests one hand on his chest, suddenly aware that a relaxed warmth has replaced the nervousness. "Actually, speaking of that--I was wondering if I could make an appointment to talk to you? During office hours?" 

"Sure. You can always email me about office hours, though." 

"Yeah, I'm still getting the hang of that... Next time, I promise." 

"Right, no problem. Next Tuesday?" James rifles through his papers for an agenda book, and then flips a couple pages ahead. "Come anytime between ten and twelve. Or right after class, that's fine." 

"Maybe after class? Yeah, that works for me. I'd come today, but... Work. I have a work thing." Steve pushes past the hesitation that tightens in his throat, and waits for the moment of recognition, waits for James to realize who he's talking to. 

If the realization comes, James doesn't given any sign. He nods, and neatly writes Steve's initials in his agenda for the ten o'clock slot. "I understand. Just come by on Tuesday after class. I'm on the third floor of the History building, so ... be ready to walk up all those stairs." 

"I'll do my best to manage. Hey, thanks, so much. I really will email next time, I'm still... Getting used to being back," Steve says, and sounds a little pathetic even to his own ears. 

James nods, though, and even gives Steve another one of his smiles, quick and kind, and yet still reaching his eyes. "I understand. I've had a good few non-traditional students. We'll get you back in the game." 

Steve returns the nod, and even shakes James's hand again before he leaves, and apologizes to the few students who were waiting behind him to talk to the professor. 

He doesn't notice until he reaches the back of the lecture hall that the nervous, almost queasy feeling had disappeared, and a growing sense of anticipation and satisfaction had replaced it. 

Self-confidence, too, and Steve walks back out into the heat and humidity, pretty sure he can do this.

*

Steve doesn't get himself that sandwich and coffee he wanted after class until two days later, when he sits at the back of the closest off campus cafe to flip through the syllabus and textbook. His study group has their first short paper due for class next Tuesday and he has a couple chapters to read. Which he should probably do as soon as he has a chance, and take some notes while he does so, in case he gets called up on a mission between now and next week.

Halfway through his chicken, bacon, avocado sandwich (the Saturday special, he discovers, and makes a mental note to remember), he hears footsteps approach his table. 

Steve braces himself. Before the Battle of New York, he hardly ever got recognized at crowded cafes or quiet coffee shops. Long afternoons spent drawing the people and places around him were much rarer now, but every so often he was able to melt into the rush of city life. He thinks sometimes, however, he'd give up some of that anonymity if it meant giving up some of his loneliness, too. 

"Hey, I'm sorry to interrupt..." 

Steve looks up and gives a small sound of surprise. He smiles when his eyes meet his history professor's, and he motions for the other man to sit down. "You're not interrupting. Though I'm not sure how I feel getting caught out doing my homework." 

"It makes you look studious and dedicated. You even have page flags and ... a whole notebook full of doodles?" He peers over Steve's textbook to his notebook and gives Steve a real, genuine smile, bright enough that his grey-blue eyes look lighter for it. 

"Yeah, it's Saturday. I was out late last night--" 

"Well, in _that_ case." James peers at Steve over his cup of coffee and gives him another small smile. "Enjoying college life?" 

"Oh, boy... Work. I was at work." Steve draws in his breath and lets it out in a huff of a laugh. "Actually, speaking of work, I should probably let you know--" 

"--yeah," James says, "I have a feeling we're going to try and hedge our way around the same topic." The expression on his face slips into a more serious one, and he leans back from the table. 

"Oh. You... you already _know_." Steve can't help but feel a little crestfallen. He'd kind of hoped to somehow accomplish a small degree of anonymity _and_ less loneliness in that course, but, really, that had only been a hope. A small, fragile hope, not something Steve could really hold onto for any length of time.

James takes another drink from his coffee and gives Steve a small, serious nod this time. "Look, I'm kind of glad we're talking about this here. Nobody else needs to know. I know, some of the administration knows, just in case..." He pauses, then look at Steve with unexpected softness in his eyes. "I want you to be safe." 

Steve opens his mouth to reply, then, surprised by James's reasoning, draws his breath in and lets out with a careful sigh. "I can take care of myself." The reply is automatic, a long-remembered refrain, and yet, for that, not particularly heartfelt. 

Indeed, what touches Steve's heart in the moment is the smile that flickers over James's face and the way his gaze drops to watch Steve fiddle with his own cup of coffee.

"I'm sure you can," James says in a soft voice. He watches Steve for another second, then reaches over and touches his arm. "But just in case... You're Steven in class, okay? Nothing more than that. I don't even know how many of the students will realize who's sitting in class with them." 

Steve replies with a grateful nod, then says, "I'll probably end up missing class a few times. But I'll try not to leave in the middle..." 

"Look, if monsters are attacking Greenwich Village, I want your ass out of that lecture hall as fast as possible." 

Steve lets out a sudden laugh and shakes his head. "Okay, professor. You can make that call for me." 

James's hand rests on Steve's arm again, and though the touch is quick and light, there's warmth behind it, enough so that Steve feels that in his chest too, a quick and silent spark, a moment of connection. There's another flicker in James's eyes, sadness and recognition, and Steve's pretty sure he's figured part of it out. 

"You served, too." 

A second of hesitation, then a nod. "Until I got injured." James shrugs and peers down at his cup of hot coffee. “ROTC in high school and college, got a degree in History and Geography. Joined the Army as an officer, couple tours in Afghanistan, busted up my left arm and shoulder, and... Here I am, back in school in my thirties.” 

“And now you’re getting a PhD US history?” 

James nods. “That’s right. Teaching everything I know about twentieth-century America to the youth of today, like you.” 

"I'm hardly the youth of today." 

"The youth of yesterday, then." James smiles a lot more fully this time and takes a minute to finish drinking his coffee. He pauses to look at his watch, and then looks at Steve. "Come by office hours when you have a chance, though, if you want or need to talk about coursework." 

"Okay, I'll still do that. It was good, though, to talk about..." Steve looks down at himself, at his hands and at the notebook and his doodles that wind their way up and down the margin of the open page. "I'm glad you know. Part of me hoped you wouldn't, but... I'm glad." 

"Good." James stands and stretches. He's wearing jeans and a black oxford shirt, and he has to tuck his hair behind his ear after leaning down to gather up his coffee cup and napkin. 

Steve finds himself entranced for a moment by the gesture, how offhand and endearing it is. James catches the smile on his face and returns it before Steve can duck his head away, and that quick warmth winds it way into Steve's chest all over again. 

"I'm going to a lecture at the library this morning, but maybe we could grab coffee again sometime. Promise I won't interrupt you if you're actually doing your homework." 

"Hey, I was doing alright until you barged in and shared my table." Steve makes a show of flipping back a few pages to his post-it notes and highlighting. "I'd like that, though. Coffee." 

"Good. Here." James leaves a business card next to Steve's coffee, and gives Steve's shoulder a squeeze before Steve can offer James his hand to shake. 

It's not until after James is gone that Steve notices he's circled his email on the card and written 'work!' next to the address, and that he's scrawled a phone number on the back and labeled that 'not work...'

*

Steve gets all his reading and notes done by Sunday morning, which is good as he gets called to run point on a mission Sunday afternoon. He leaves his apartment around two o'clock, then spends about the better part of twenty-four hours fighting sentient alien tech outside Pittsburgh. By the time he gets back Monday he's exhausted and aches all over, enough so that he stands in the shower until the hot water runs cold, and then he falls asleep almost immediately after he drying off and getting dressed.

The exhaustion is better by Tuesday morning, though Steve still feels a little achy and stiff. He's early for class, but too late to drop by James's office, so he stops for coffee instead and sits outside the lecture hall skimming through his notes.

The mornings are already turning chilly, fall only a couple weeks away now, and Steve thinks that he couldn't live anywhere other than New York City during this time of year. There's something immutable about the scent of cold air and falling leaves, the hushed sound of the last few warm, dark evenings as summer winds down into fall. Steve's nearly done with his coffee when he hears familiar footsteps approach. 

"I was just thinking, how you can feel summer coming to an end," he says, and turns to give James a smile. 

The other man nods, and leans against the bench Steve's sitting at. Around them, the campus is still coming to life for nine o'clock classes, and Steve enjoys the last few minutes of quiet with James. 

"I wasn't sure you'd be here today. Are you--" James pauses, and gives Steve a careful look. "You're alright?" 

"I'm fine," Steve replies quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, he realizes, and tips his head to the side. "A little worn out. You saw the news?" 

James nods. He's in a blue button up and slim-cut khakis, his hair pulled into a ponytail, a few strands framing his face and giving him the same sort of softness as the late summer morning. 

Steve catches himself in time to realize he's gazing up at his professor. He gives himself a shake and mutters an apology. "Sorry... yesterday was long." 

"It's fine. Come on, once you're in class, all you need to think about is being in class." James touches Steve on the arm, and waits for Steve to stand before walking towards the lecture hall. 

Even though Steve still sits towards the back and spends more time taking notes and listening to his classmates than participating himself, he finds quickly that it's true. That once he sits down in the lecture hall, he can let the rest of the world fall away and he can concentrate on the topics they're discussing. 

Part of it is James and the easy, serious way he guides the discussion, how he pulls thoughts and questions and answers from the class, how he doesn't hide his eagerness or excitement when one of the students comes up with an idea or question he hadn't thought of before. 

Part of it, Steve knows, is the cool quiet of the room, the isolation it offers, the dim lights and sleepy-quiet footsteps on carpet before class starts. Even if the anonymity the course offers him is an illusion, it's one he'll hang onto for the class hour, and for as many weeks as he can.

*

The third week into the semester, James divides the class up into their discussion groups. Steve collects his binder and textbook, his collection of notes and papers, and moves himself from the back of the lecture hall closer to the center.

Everyone else in his group looks about eighteen years old and about as nervous as Steve feels about working on their first graded group activity. For a second, Steve wonders if he should try and make himself look, well, smaller is the only adjective to come to mind, and he dismisses the thought with a shake of his head. The feeling only comes over him every now and then, when he wants to fade into the background and watch the world move around him, instead of feeling as if he's the one responsible for the world turning. 

He can't fade into the background of a ten person study and discussion group, though, and he offers a hello as he sits down with his classmates. 

One of the girls in the group gives him a curious look, one that makes Steve look down and hide behind his baseball cap and glasses. When he looks up, she gives him a little smile and opens up her notebook, so her class notes are next to his. 

"You have really nice handwriting," she says, "maybe you should be the recorder for the group?"

Instead of saying what he really has is old-fashioned penmanship, practiced in his mother's tiny, warm kitchen when he was too sick to go to school, Steve nods and says, "Sure, I can do that. Steven," he introduces himself, and ducks his head away when she laughs at him for offering his hand to shake. 

She takes it anyway and gives him a good, firm handshake and introduces herself as Elaine. 

A couple of the other kids in the group show Steve the ins and outs of Blackboard in approximately ten minutes, and Steve embarrasses them by being enthusiastically grateful. By the end of class they have three pages of notes in Steve's neat, slanted penmanship, and Steve's pretty sure he can keep up with his group via the online course site if he misses class any time soon. 

 

**_October_ **

 

The next few weeks pass in much the same manner: class, brief conversations with James before and after class, a few really short missions in between. None of them force Steve to miss his Tuesday or Thursday lecture, so he really shouldn't complain when he gets a call early on a Tuesday morning the first week of October. 

Even though he's auditing and attendance won't affect his grade, Steve sends James a quick email on his way to the Tower: 

_Work called me this morning, so I'm going to miss today. I'll get in touch with you as soon as I can. Wednesday is the day you're giving a paper at the library, right? Good luck! Tell me about it when I get back. - SGR_

It's too early to expect a reply, but Steve checks his email a couple times when he has the chance anyway. He checks one last time before he has to abandon his phone, and pushes past the funny feeling in his chest at not being able to explain everything to James. 

The mission takes him to Delaware, then down to Georgia, but by the time Steve's on his way back to New York, he realizes he hasn't seen any more of the southeast then he had before. His memory is full of empty warehouses, an abandoned school, empty parking lots, and the sickening crunch of metal against metal when they weren't so empty. 

Empty enough, though, he thinks and rubs his hands over his face. His team had to take out an alien tech cartel that turned out to have pockets all along the eastern seaboard. Steve's tired, hurt, and his team needs a break before they can even think of taking on any bases in the northeast. Mission operations will have to run debriefs first, anyway, and Steve's going to need his ankle checked before he gets back on the roster. 

When he gets back to the Tower, there are a few calls and messages on his phone. None of them are important enough to worry about in the moment, and Steve tosses his phone onto his bed before he limps to the shower. He hates sleeping here, in his utilitarian, tasteful blue and grey apartment, with its functional furniture, plain walls, and bulletproof glass windows. Three in the morning is too late to head back to his own apartment, however; it almost feels too late to shower, but Steve knows he won't fall asleep until he washes the grit and smoke from his hair and skin. 

The shower ends up being very short, very hot, and very soapy, and Steve collapses onto the bed in his Tower rooms after pulling on a tee shirt and pair of boxers. His phone buzzes at him once, then twice, and Steve ignores it as long as he can until he starts to worry some mission fallout is taking place somewhere. Visions of the empty, wrecked classrooms wash through his mind and Steve gropes over his bed for his abandoned phone. 

Natasha's name pops in his messages, though, checking up on him, and letting him know she's going out on a mission tomorrow morning. Classified, of course, but Steve feels his chest clench a little, grateful to hear from her. He's awake enough after that to flick through the rest of his notifications on his phone, and to even open up his email. 

He has three--no, _four_ \--emails from James, and it's only in that moment that Steve realizes he's missed two classes in a row and two days have already passed since the last class meeting. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. He can't leave those emails unanswered, not after the news coverage this last mission received. 

Steve rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He'll probably regret this when he wakes up in the morning, but he sends James a quick text to his cell phone. 

_I'm okay. I don't know if I'll ever catch up on the reading, but otherwise, I'm good... -SGR_

James has to be asleep, so Steve knows waiting for a reply is a futile exercise. He's too wound up to sleep, and his ankle hurts too much for him to get truly comfortable before the painkillers kick in, however, so he keeps his phone on his chest as he stretches out beneath the blankets anyway. Part of him _wants_ to stay awake to wait for James to reply, to see if he can hear the sound of James's voice in his emails or texts. 

The pain meds eventually kick in, however, and Steve drifts between being tired and too tired to sleep. He dozes off, probably, and then wakes up again when he feels his phone vibrate on his chest. 

_I'll catch you up on the readings. Thank god, though. Get some rest and let me know if you're up to coffee. -JB_

The words blur on the screen and in his mind as he reads, but Steve forces himself to do so twice, and feels another kind of warmth gather in his chest as he drifts off to sleep.

*

"Black coffee, two sugars, and a turkey sandwich. For _breakfast_ ," James says and puts a plate down in front of Steve, then a cup of hot coffee. He gives Steve the same skeptical gaze he'd given him when Steve told James his order, then shakes his head and sits down across from Steve. "How's the ankle?"

"It's fine. Give me another day or two and ... it'll be like nothing was wrong. It's just a really bad sprain, anyway." Steve prods at the sandwich a bit. "It's almost lunchtime, it's not strange to eat a sandwich at lunchtime, professor." Steve tries prodding his food again when James grimaces at the title. 

"Did you really call me _professor_? When we're sitting in the smallest breakfast and lunch only cafe about a million miles away from campus on a Sunday morning?" 

Steve laughs, and then gives his sandwich a frown. Between the painkillers and the competing pain of his ankle healing itself, _and_ the lingering exhaustion, he's not sure how hungry he actually is. His body needs the carbs and proteins, but the thought of eating a whole sandwich daunts him. 

"How long have you actually been awake? You texted me at like three in the morning, Steve." James pauses and looks down at his own soup and sandwich, and then rubs both hands over his face. "If I admit I've been worried about you since... since you emailed me last week, will you agree to call me Bucky when it's only you and me like this?"

"Like... _this_ ," Steve says, slow, careful, like he wants to hold onto the word and moment as long as he can. "Bucky?" 

"James _Buchanan_ Barnes. So: Bucky, thanks to my baby sister. My uncle's the James in the family; it worked out." He stirs his soup, and gives it another, thoughtful look after Steve gives his sandwich a half-hearted one. "Maybe we should trade. Think you can handle minestrone?" 

"Actually, that's... that's not a bad idea," Steve admits. He hands Bucky his plate, and accepts the bowl of soup and half sandwich in place of his own food. His hand brushes against Bucky's as they do so and Steve really wants to hold onto that moment, too. "You don't need to worry about me, though, you know." 

"I know. Actually, no, that's not true." Bucky frowns, but he looks tired, and worry pinches at the corners of his mouth. "I don't know that, and I kind of _do_ need to worry about you. I'm sure your friends do, but, god, _Steve_ , you don't do much worrying over yourself." 

"I worry enough. I get through alright on my own." Steve's mind flashes back to a few moments ago, to the touch of Bucky's hand against his own, and how the moment of warmth was too brief. 

"Yeah, to take painkillers, and how to get yourself to class on an hour of sleep. And not that I want to see you on the news, but at least then I know you're... you're, you know, god, alive." Bucky rubs his face again, and lets out a sigh of a breath and nods towards the bowl of soup in front of Steve. "Go on, get something hot inside you." 

Steve hangs his head a little at that and stirs the soup before eating a couple of spoonfuls. The hot food feels easier to eat than the sandwich, and Steve ends up giving Bucky another grateful look. "Okay, the soup was a really good idea. I guess you could worry a little bit over me. If you wanted." 

"I'm not sure want is the operative word here, but okay, I'll take that." The frown on his face eases into a tired smile, and Bucky reaches over to touch Steve's arm. "You said you live around here?" 

"Yeah, a couple blocks away. I haven't actually been back there yet." 

"I'll walk you home after we eat." 

And he does. Bucky finishes the whole sandwich Steve couldn't even start, makes sure Steve eats the soup and part of the half-sandwich on his plate, and convinces Steve to order another sandwich to go so he has something already made when he wants dinner. 

"Are you sure you should even be walking?" The skepticism reappears on Bucky's face as he watches Steve stand up from his seat, unsteady. "We could get a cab."

"I have a brace on the ankle. It's not even two city blocks, I promise." Steve lets Bucky carry his sandwich, though, and only makes a small sound of surprise when Bucky rests a hand at his elbow as they stop to cross the street. "I'm a little worn out..." 

"Yeah, I can tell. Here? That wasn't so far, you were right." His hand cups Steve's elbow again while they cross the street and then walk up to Steve's building. "Do you want... I could come up." 

In that moment of hesitation, Steve feels the warmth he'd been trying to tamp down start to bloom in his chest. The same warmth he felt before falling asleep early that morning; the same, yearning warmth that makes him want Bucky's hand at his elbow again, his quiet, serious smile as Steve asks questions about his research, even the little worried look in his eyes when he asks Steve, in turn, about his own work. 

God, but this is probably such a bad idea, and Steve's too tired and sore and lonely to make a better decision, so he nods, and leans in against Bucky when he helps Steve into the elevator. 

"Hey, okay? Come on, let's get you settled down at home." Bucky holds Steve's arm a little more tightly when Steve leans into him, and then cuts Steve off when he tries to say he's fine. "You are so not fine at all. You need to rest, alright?" 

"I know." 

"Do you?" 

Steve fiddles with his keys, and then ushers Bucky into his apartment. It's small, but neatly kept, books on the shelves and artworks on the walls, and he drops down onto the sofa when Bucky pushes him toward it. "Today? I do. I really do." 

That must be enough of an answer to satisfy Bucky, because he deposits his bag by the sofa, takes Steve's sandwich to the fridge, and then comes back to help Steve elevate his ankle and put ice on it. 

"Do you want me to stay?" 

Steve shrugs. The word _yes_ rises up in his throat, and he swallows it back, uncertain of how to ask his own or how to answer Bucky's question. "You probably have a lot of work to do." 

"Oh my god, Steve, I have _so_ much work to do. But I can do some of it here, for a couple hours, anyway." He touches Steve's shoulder, and then rubs warmly when Steve practically sighs into the touch. "You're a mess. Go on, stretch out, fall asleep if you need to. I'll stay for a while and work on my chapter revisions." 

"I'm not sleepy..." 

"Sure." 

Bucky pulls a tablet from his bag, and then settles himself on the other end of the sofa with Steve's feet in his lap. 

Which... well, Steve's pretty sure _that's_ a bad idea, too, but after a few minutes of contact, of the inimitable warmth of being that close to another person, of being that close to _Bucky_ , he can't find the energy to protest. His second dose of painkillers that day starts to kick in more strongly, and the heavy feeling that always accompanies the knitting of his muscles is enough to make him want to sleep again. Bucky's fingers brush over his toes, warm and fond, and Steve's pretty sure he's asleep before he can get out a protest for that, too. 

He feels groggy when he wakes up, not sure what time it is or how long he's been asleep. Bucky's hand is on his shoulder, nudging him gently, and he smiles when Steve blinks at him. 

"Sorry... I have a meeting on campus. Dissertation committee, Sunday conference call, so I probably should be on time." He smiles again, and squeezes Steve's shoulder. "Get some more sleep, and eat your sandwich for dinner. I'll text you?" 

Steve nods, bleary and pleased and warm. He says goodbye to Bucky, and notices, right before he's about to fall asleep again, that Bucky left his own stack of notes for the class readings on the coffee table with a post-it note. 

He sleeps for three or four more hours, waking up when it's already evening, still groggy, but in less pain and without the headachy murkiness that always seems to overcome him after too many days in a row without enough rest. A few minutes pass before Steve works out enough of the stiffness from sleeping on the sofa to stand up and turn on a couple lights, then to get his sandwich and some juice to drink. 

All four texts on his phone are from Bucky, reminding him to do his class readings and to eat dinner, then asking if he needs anything else. 

_I'm fine. Tell me about your dissertation meeting. Tell me about your dissertation, too._

Before Bucky can reply, Steve also sends a picture of his half-eaten sandwich and of the notes Bucky left, spread out on his sofa next to his own notebook. 

_See? Eating and resting and studying. Now tell me about your day._

Bucky does. He sends Steve a string of messages about his meeting, and how it was both frustrating and exhilarating, how his dissertation on personal histories of WW I is both the most interesting and most harrowing experience. After about an hour, Steve sends Bucky a text asking if he could call or FaceTime. Instead of replying, Bucky puts a FaceTime call through to him. 

"What's up? You finally get sick of me going on at you about my diss?" Bucky frowns. "Also, you still look tired. Go to bed, Steven." 

"No, I wanted to hear you talk about it a little bit." Steve shifts on the sofa to fix the ice pack on his ankle. 

"Yeah?" Bucky says, then, "You also sound like you're getting sleepy again." 

"I'm _not_. I'm just..." Steve stretches and rubs a hand over his face. "I need to stay awake for a few hours. Tell me about the end of that chapter, then I promise that I'm going to shower and take painkillers. I should be okay tomorrow, but I want to stay up long enough to take those pills." 

"Okay. I got you. So, chapter one is letters..." 

Steve lets himself get a little lost in Bucky's voice and his talk of archival work, of the generation that went to war before his own, his father's generation, and how this might be the closest he's ever felt to that time period. Bucky maps out his dissertation on a series of post-it notes for Steve, complete with a makeshift timeline and arrows connecting the different parts of each chapter. 

After Bucky puts the post-its together, he tells Steve it's time for his medicine, a shower, and bed, and that he'll send Steve a picture of his sticky note map. Steve agrees, and when he finds a series of pictures in his messages after his shower, he can't help but smile to himself the whole time while he's taking his painkillers and getting ready for bed. He even thinks about sending Bucky a picture of his bed, or even himself in bed, then settles for a picture of his ankle, propped up on the bed pillows with a fresh ice pack. 

_Thanks for keeping me company. You get some rest, too, Buck._

*

By class time on Tuesday morning, Steve's ankle still hurts a little but the limp and post-mission exhaustion feel like they're mostly gone. He makes himself coffee and eggs for breakfast, takes a couple painkillers, puts on jeans and a sweatshirt, and wraps his ankle up to keep it stable while he's walking around campus.

Elaine, the classmate from his discussion group who complimented his penmanship, usually sits two seats down from Steve at the back of the lecture hall. She gives him a smile when he sits down, then a weird, worried look. He's almost always there before her, reviewing his notes, and sometimes they go over notes together when they're both early. Today, he gets to his seat with only a minute to spare. 

"Hey," Steve says, and smiles himself. "Am I late?" 

"No, but... You were out. For a _long_ time," she says. "Are you okay, Steven?"

"What? Oh..." Right, maybe the injury and exhaustion look worse than they feel. Steve shrugs. "Yeah, I'm good. Got injured at work," he explains, and he knows he sounds like he's trying to brush it off with a half-lie. "I messed my ankle up pretty bad." 

"Okay." She turns back to her notebook and phone, and then back to Steve. "I can email you my notes if you want? You missed a really good group activity, too... Smaller groups than our discussion ones." 

"Yeah? That must've been a lot of groups." 

"Well, yeah, but Barnes is good at that stuff. If you have to have a grad student teacher, he's the one to have." 

"He's great," Steve agrees, and feels himself flush a little as he watches Bucky get his notes set up on the podium at the front of the lecture hall. 

Elaine follows his gaze, and then makes a small sound of agreement. "He's cute, too, you're right, if you're into guys..." 

Steve splutters a protest and feels himself blush harder.

*

"So, is he cute?" Nat asks a couple weeks later as they finish up what turned out to be a two hour sparring match. She bumps her shoulder against Steve's when he sighs, and tries to crowd him into a corner of the room. "You've talked about him enough today, so he must be..."

"Why does he have to be cute? Maybe I really enjoy the class." Steve returns the nudge and then stretches his back. He's hot, tired, and sweaty, and with that good sort of pain that comes after a long, hard workout. Class was good today, too, and he's pretty sure he really did go on about Bucky afterwards to Nat. 

"Sure, Steve. Everyone who audits Modern US History ends up getting coffee with the professor and telling their friends how said professor enjoys tea in the morning, but coffee in the afternoon, how his eyes 'light up super bright when he talks about his research.' And, yeah, I'm quoting you there..." Nat smiles, though, and lets him walk around her to start to head to the showers. "Okay, so you like the class." 

"Yeah, it's great. Interesting, and I like the readings a lot, but thank god I don't have to do the exams. I've already missed too many days, but Barnes is a good lecturer, and he asks questions that get you to think about the details and the big picture, and the details that get left out of the big picture." Steve walks with Nat down the hall to the showers, and then stops before they get to the lockers. "He's, um... He's pretty cute... If you like that sort of look, with the long hair and the button-down shirts..." 

"You have a crush on your teacher. Nice." Nat's still smiling, though, and then gives him a wide-eyed pleased look. "Oh my _god_. You do. You really do have a crush on him. Didn't you even know?" 

"It's not like that..." 

"Does he have dark hair? I bet he's athletic, right?" Nat laughs when Steve glances away. "Steve, come on, you have a type. Super competent brunettes. We've watched enough movies together." 

"He was in the army," Steve says, and realizes a second later that he's digging himself in deeper. 

Yeah. He has a type, but he hasn't let his thoughts or feelings settle on the idea that Bucky might be his type. God, he hasn't even let himself skirt around the idea that he might be Bucky's type either. Bad ideas that should be avoided, both of them. 

Except, once he says good-bye to Nat and steps into the narrow shower stall, beneath the spray of almost too hot water that he lets sluice down his back and chest, he lets his mind wander to what it could be like. 

Not only meeting Bucky for coffee every weekend, but also waking up late on Sundays and going out for coffee and brunch together, maybe going out for dinner a few nights during the week, listening to him talk about his dissertation, rubbing his shoulders after a long week of teaching and writing. Movies and dinner dates and late nights spent at Steve's small apartment, Bucky leaning in to kiss him after they lock the door behind them on a cool autumn evening. 

Kissing him. Bucky kissing _him_. Steve closes his eyes against the thought and angles his face up toward the hot water. Kissing him, hard and fast on the mouth, and maybe more gentle along the line of his jaw. Maybe he wouldn't have shaved in a few days, and Steve can nuzzle into the stubble on his cheek, kiss the corner of his mouth before pulling him in really close. 

Steve touches his chest and gives a shudder, surprised by his own need and how much he wants to touch Bucky, to be close enough to him to touch his hair, his skin, his lips.

Right. Maybe what he had on Bucky back in September was a crush. Ignoring those feelings didn't stop them from growing; admitting them makes the warmth and apprehension simultaneously bloom in Steve's chest. 

When he gets out of the shower, Steve has a text from a Bucky that turns out to be a lone picture of his dissertation notes, completely covering the surface of his desk in the graduate reading room at the library. Steve smiles; he can almost make out the shape and slant of Bucky's handwriting on the pages. 

_Heading back home from the Tower in a few hours. Grab dinner at Lucio's? I'll give you a ride home on my bike afterwards._

Because he's in the library, Bucky must have his phone on silent, so a few minutes pass before Steve gets a reply. When he does, all it says is _YES_ and _meet you at 6, I'll stop for a bottle of wine._

Dinner plans are enough to get Steve through his afternoon meeting and to keep the little, nervous flutter in his stomach when he takes his bike over to the pizza place. He's early, but only early enough to grab a seat a few minutes before Bucky walks in. 

"Grad student cheap," he says and places a bottle of red in front of Steve. "But better than nothing. Which is what I have in my fridge right now, so you actually _are_ a hero, Steve." 

"Should I try and save you from drinking this?" Steve asks, examining the wine. "Or am I saving you from dissertation overload if I let you drink it and then fall asleep on your sofa after dinner?

"Have a glass with me," Bucky replies. "I know, alcohol's useless on you," he says when Steve opens his mouth to explain. "Have a glass with me anyway. It'll taste better if we share it." 

Bucky pours a too-full glass for himself and one for Steve after opening the bottle, and stretches himself along the booth seat after he's had a few sips. He's in jeans and a blue plaid flannel, hair pulled into a half-bun, half-ponytail, and he keeps on tucking a few stands behind his right ear as he talks to Steve. 

Steve knows the wine doesn't do anything for him aside from taste pretty nice with the pizza, but he can feel warmth in his fingertips and the easy, almost dizzy feeling in his head that he can remember from back before the war. 

"Let me pay," Steve says before they leave. "You can pay next time." 

Bucky lets Steve tug the bill from his hands, and lets his fingertips brush against Steve's. He looks he's about to say something, his eyes bright and his tongue touching the edge of his lips. 

"That's a deal, then. I'll find someplace nice to take you, get a better bottle of wine." He gives Steve a smile, warm and bold, and reaches to touch Steve's hand again. "Let me leave the tip, though. Just in case I don't get to take you out for a few weeks because of either one of our jobs..." 

 

 ** _November_**

 

A week before Thanksgiving, autumn takes a sharp turn in the city, whirling dried leaves through campus on a cutting wind. Steve shoves his hands into his coat pockets as he walks with Bucky from the lecture hall to the History building, and even ducks his head against the wind as they walk into a gust. 

"I feel like I should take you for coffee this morning," Steve says. If he can feel the cold, then Bucky can most definitely feel it. "Well, tea. I think I've got the tea and coffee parameters down." 

"Okay, first, I don't actually have _coffee and tea parameters_ , but, second, I probably wouldn't argue with you against that." He shivers a little and flips the collar of his navy peacoat up against the wind, then nudges Steve's elbow when they get to the side door of his building. "Come sit upstairs with me?" 

"You'll probably have students." Steve doesn't say no, though, and holds the door open for Bucky as they walk in. 

"I doubt it. Midterms are done, and nobody's ready to think about finals yet. They're probably all thinking about Thanksgiving break." 

The first floor of the building is stiflingly hot, and Steve stands out in the corridor while Bucky goes into the department office to check his mailbox and talk to the secretaries. After a few minutes, the heat settles into a more comfortable warmth, a little too close, but with the scent of books and paper and tea, and Steve suddenly finds it incredibly easy to imagine Bucky spending the rest of his life in a place like this. He finds it really easy to imagine him himself playing some part in that life, too, and it makes him smile when Bucky walks out of the office with a stack of papers and mail in his hand. 

"Journal stuff. I have a conference form I need to fill out upstairs, where, if you're lucky, I'll actually make you a cup of tea." 

"If I'm lucky? Okay, here, let me carry that for you..." Steve reaches to take the papers from Bucky, and then looks away, suddenly bashful when that earns him this sudden, pleased smile from Bucky. 

They walk upstairs without talking, and Bucky rests his hand on Steve's back as they get to the grad student offices. 

"I know where your office is," Steve says. 

"I know." The hallway's empty, and Bucky keeps his hand on Steve's back as they walk to his office, and he unlocks the door. "Tea, conference forms, and you have reading to catch up on, I'm guessing." 

"Don't I always? Thanks." Steve nods when Bucky pulls the extra chair out for Steve to sit. "Your officemate's not around?" 

"My officemate is in Portugal for the rest of the semester, so, no, she's not around. Yeah, I organized her desk for her," Bucky says when Steve gives both their desks and Bucky a curious look. "As a gift, you know?" 

"Sure, Buck. I like how both your desks match now. Are you going to cover hers in columns of post-it notes, too?" 

"Just because you subscribe to haphazard page flags..." Bucky kicks the doorstop between the door and the jamb, so it's open a couple inches, then rests his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Tea?" 

Steve nods, and feels himself yearning into Bucky's touch, the warmth and weight of it, and tries not to think of Bucky's hand moving down his chest. "Don't you owe me dinner?" 

Bucky's hand tightens on Steve's shoulder and his thumb strokes a warm, gentle line along Steve's collarbone. "I do..." 

For a moment, Steve gets lost in the memory of their last dinner together a few weeks ago. Work _did_ end up getting in the way, between a rush of day-long missions on Steve's part and then grading and conferences on Bucky's. He leans into the touch and lets himself relax into it, too, to let himself feel how close Bucky is to him right now, how he can catch the scent of books and tea on Bucky, too. 

"I feel like I've bought you endless cups of coffee after that last trip you took out to Washington, though," Bucky murmurs. He's still rubbing Steve's shoulder, slow and fond, and he leans in little closer when Steve ducks his head down and smiles. "You just want somebody to make sure you stay awake. Hey," Bucky adds, and his voice drops low and private, "it's okay to want stuff like that." 

All Steve really wants is to turn his head, only a couple inches, and brush his mouth against the inside of Bucky's arm, to find the pulse-point at his wrist and feel the thrum of Bucky's heart beneath his lips. To tell Bucky, finally, what all this closeness has come to mean to him. 

"Steve," Bucky says, low and beneath his breath, and lets his hand slip from Steve's shoulder to his back, where it lingers for a moment, before slipping away completely. He goes to close his office door, then comes back to sit down across from Steve. 

They're both quiet for a minute, and Steve can see the way Bucky wants to say something more, how there are words half-formed on his lips. 

"Can you wait?" Steve asks, and reaches to take one of Bucky's hands into his own. He traces the tip of one finger along the faint blue veins of Bucky's wrist to the palm of his hand. "I know it doesn't matter, you're not giving me a grade in the class, but..." 

"Thank god, you'd fail on your absences alone." Bucky turns his hand in Steve's so he can lace their fingers together. "But you're Captain America, and you probably shouldn't date your professor until the semester's over, at least. And, generally, I make it a rule not to date my students, so I guess we've hit a temporary impasse." 

"Something like that." Steve strokes Bucky's palm, as lightly as he can, and smiles at the shiver that Bucky can't suppress. He thinks of kissing his palm, of pressing his lips to Bucky's wrist and the inside of his elbow, of kissing the crook of his neck and making him shiver anew. "I... I want to wait. I mean, _no_ , I don't, but... I'd feel better." 

Bucky nods and the expression on his face becomes serious. He draws both their hands in close, rests his cheek against Steve's hand, and nods again.

"Classes end December fourteenth," Bucky murmurs. "Take me to see a movie, someplace by your apartment. Pick me up from campus and we'll go out on a date." 

"And you'll take me to dinner?" Steve brushes his knuckles against Bucky's cheek and his chest goes tight with longing. 

"Oh, I'm definitely taking you to dinner. Then I'm taking you home," he adds in a low, quiet voice, turning his head so his lips graze Steve's knuckles. "And I might keep you there all weekend."

*

Monday of Thanksgiving week, Steve spends the whole morning catching up on class readings and taking notes. He even sends Bucky a picture of his notes, and rolls his eyes when Bucky asks if it's the only page he hasn't doodled up and down the margins.

Instead of a response, he sends Bucky a picture of the aimless vines climbing his margins and the half-sketched World War II battlefields that they entwine. 

About thirty seconds later, Steve's phone rings. 

"Hey," Bucky says, "are you good? I know that chapter on the European Theatre is pretty heavy..." 

Steve's breath catches in surprise and he lets it out in a sigh of affection as he nods. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay. Are you writing? Keep writing, then call me when you're done and we can talk." 

When Steve's phone rings again two hours later, the vines have blooms bursting from them, and a fading sun sets over the ballpoint pen inked battlefields.

*

Steve works the day before Thanksgiving, through the night and into early Thanksgiving morning. Bucky meets him outside the Tower, in worn jeans, a hoodie, jacket, and baseball cap.

"Did I wake you up?" Steve's already out of his suit, and not dressed much different from Bucky, though he's got a sweater and tee shirt on under his coat. 

"No, Steven, I always get up before six on a day off. Here, warm up a little," Bucky says and hands Steve a twenty-four ounce cup from Starbucks. "It's tea," he explains, not looking apologetic at all. "You're not allowed to have coffee until you've been home for at least twelve hours."

"You're the worst." Steve holds the tea in both hands, though, and lets the heat spread through him. When he takes a sip, it's of strong black tea with sugar and milk, and he can't help the sigh of relief that escapes. 

"We should've planned this better, we could've gone to see the Macy's Day Parade." Bucky takes a drink from his own tea, and hooks his index finger around Steve's. 

Steve groans a little. "Next year. Maybe. Though, the crowds..." 

"You can come watch it at my Ma's house instead. My sister and my uncle do the football thing, later on, too, if you're into that. I usually end up doing the dishes for my Ma," he admits, and laughs when Steve tugs him along by his one finger. 

"Okay, not the worst. I'm doing the free breakfast and lunch program at a few of the city schools, but next year, yeah, let's plan that, okay?" 

"Okay." Bucky pauses when Steve does, then nudges his shoulder against Steve's. 

The early morning city is quiet, dark, and chilly, empty like it only can be on a holiday like this, and they continue their walk until they're near the school at which Steve's spending the rest of the morning. They pause again, hands still linked, and Steve smiles when Bucky only lets go to reach up and fix Steve's jacket collar. 

"I'm going to go cook breakfast for the kids." 

"Good. You'll enjoy that. I'm going to go hang out with my family. I'll have leftovers for you tonight, though. Come over?" 

"I will." 

Steve catches Bucky's hands into his own and holds them really tight, probably too tight, before he heads to the school and Bucky to the subway station. 

 

**_December_ **

 

"Do you know what I actually want?" 

Steve glances away from the mission reports he's reading through and at Bucky, who's supposed to be reading essays. He's sort of slumped into the corner of Steve's sofa, though, and he's starting to get that hollow, glassy-eyed sort of look in his eyes that he does when he spends too many hours reading or writing in one day. 

"What? Sleep? You look like you need caffeine, or maybe some protein, or I don't even know. Buck, you look kind of ... haunted." Steve puts his tablet aside to lean over and start rubbing the back of Bucky's neck. "How many essays do you have left?" 

"A million..." He groans at Steve's touch, though, and reaches up to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Okay, about ten. The two MA students I have as graders for the course grabbed discussion board posts for the week." 

"Put them aside, at least for a while. Come on, come here..." Steve tugs Bucky a little closer, and then catches his eye. 

Right. He knows that look Bucky's giving him, because the same feeling in Bucky's eyes is mirrored in his own heart. The one that makes Steve want to forget everything, to forget that he's auditing a class, and that he has a reputation that he has to take into account, that he wants to keep Bucky safe, too. Forget that there's anything else in the world aside from the two of them. 

Gentle, Steve traces the tendril of hair that falls over Bucky's cheek and repeats the motion when Bucky turns his face into the touch. There's longing in his eyes, behind the fatigue, and he sighs into the way Steve traces the line of his jaw, too. 

"Come on," Steve murmurs again, "it's Sunday morning, you can take a break..." 

Bucky nods, his eyes fall half-closed, and he turns his head closer into Steve's touch. Soft and still, the moment stretches between them, and for all his longing, Steve can feel the sweetness in the moment, too. The late autumn sunshine outside is unseasonably warm, and there's a sense of anticipation in the warmth, rain and wind to come in the next few days. But today, the unexpected warmth filters through the slightly open window and Steve can feel the breeze catch his fingertips as he edges them along Bucky's jaw. 

"Twelve days," Bucky murmurs. 

"I know." Steve leans in to press a kiss to Bucky's forehead and sinks into the closeness, and the press of Bucky's hand on his chest. "Should I make a pot of coffee?" 

"Yes, please." Bucky pats him on the chest before he leans away, and the morning slips into an afternoon of coffee cups and post-it notes.

*

The out of season warmth extends from Sunday into Monday, and into Tuesday, when it becomes an uncanny, humid, almost feverish kind of warmth.

Steve walks across campus in a tee shirt and jeans and baseball cap as the breeze whirls the last dead leaves on campus around his feet. 

Later, he thinks, he should've know that things were about to change. He'd been lucky so far, anyway; three months of half-anonymity is more than he could've asked for. 

They prop the doors open in the lecture hall so that there's some crossbreeze between the warmth outside and the heat inside. Steve settles into his seat, and pulls his baseball cap off to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

A few things things happen all at once inside the warm lecture hall: 

Bucky divides the class into their discussion groups, then posts the discussion topic on the online course site. The class falls into a hush as they read the topic. 

Outside, the dry leaves scrape against the paved walkways, the sound uncanny and loud through the open doors of the quiet lecture hall. 

Steve glances at his phone to check the time, then glances at it again when an emergency alert flickers on the screen. Around him, nearly every phone in the lecture hall does the same thing, and the room is a cacophony of message alerts for about five seconds. 

In the same five seconds, Steve's phone lights up with a series of short, clipped messages from Tony reiterating the news in the alert, asking him to come, _now_. 

A warehouse in upstate New York and one right outside the city have exploded. Linked, probably self-triggered, possibly alien tech, possibly not, which might be worse.

Steve stares down at his phone, then looks up at his discussion group. They all have odd, lost looks on their faces, mirroring his own. 

"Steven, just go. _Go_ ," Elaine says, "I'll send you the notes." 

Steve stands from his seat, leaves his books and papers and binder, and looks over at Bucky across the lecture hall. 

The same expression lingers on Bucky's face, too, lost and scared, but then, certain, and maybe even a little proud. He smiles at Steve, and nods.

For a moment, the hushed quiet falls over the room again and Steve can hear the whisk of leaves against the sidewalk, the murmur of breathing in the lecture hall as the rest of the class turns to look at him. 

He returns the smile before turning on his heel and jogging out of the room. 

Before he's out of range, he hears a quiet "oh my god, it _is_ him" and feels a sense of overwhelming gratitude towards his classmates for their three months of tacit understanding.

*

**Dec. 4**  
 _Steve, stay safe, okay? Just text me to let me know you got this._

_(You ruined my group activity, fyi. We spent the next thirty minutes talking about you and then I let everyone go. Lecture hall was too fucking hot anyway.)_

_Please don't ever use emoji again when you text me. Good luck and I'll see you soon._

**Dec. 5**  
_Okay, day two. I saw the news. You were on the news, and, by the way, you look terrible on tv._

**Dec. 6**  
_Day three: I can't... Steve, I know you don't even have your phone, but I can't not text you. I need to feel like I'm doing something. Class okay today. Kids miss you._

**Dec. 7**  
_Day fucking four: Friday. We have a date in a week, Captain Rogers. Don't you dare stand me up._

**Dec. 8**  
_Day Five: Oh my god. Don't watch the news. Don't do it, Steven. I can't even watch the news, and they SENT you out there. Damnit._

**Dec. 9**  
_Day Six: Sundays are the worst._

_I miss you, you know? The way you smile over your coffee on Sunday at that horrible tiny cafe by your place. I miss that._

_I can't go by myself when you're not around._

_Correction: Sunday NIGHTS are the worst._

_Fuck, Steve. Come home. Just... come home, okay?_

**Dec. 10**  
_Yeah, I know, you're tired of me texting. Or you will be when you get back to ... to this. Okay. It's been fucking freezing here since you left._

_Hope your people are with you. That was the worst, when I got hurt, those few hours wondering if I was alone or not. Pain's a bitch, you know? Couldn't think right and that was scary._

_I hope you're not alone out there._

**Dec. 11**  
_Class day. Advisor meeting. Grad Student Holiday Party! I made hummus. (Yes, yes, I did. And don't call me a hipster, you don't even know what that word means.)_

_Look, I'll give you a homework pass, please let me know you're okay...._

**Dec. 12**  
_Nothing's exploded on the news lately, so I'm guessing you're good... I know you are. I just really want to KNOW you are. Fuck. It's late, okay: party was good, class almost done, chapter revisions are so not done. Got a really cool book on oral histories and stuff we can look at together though, and there's going to be an equally cool exhibit at the New York Historical Society. Promise I won't bring you for Show and Tell (but I do kind of plan on bringing you...)_

_Wrote you an essay. Just missing you._

**Dec. 13**

 

**Dec. 14**  
_Please don't tell me you stood me up._

_Steve?_

*

The rain and unseasonable warmth have disappeared when Steve's team gets back to New York City, replaced by the kind of crystal clear cold that Steve always associates with the nights leading up to Christmas.

Like autumn, winter in New York City is like nowhere else. And Steve doesn't want to be anywhere else during this time of year, he realizes as he stands on the landing pad and takes in a breath of cold, sharp winter air. He pulls his helmet off and closes his eyes, lets himself feel the city around him, and the solid safety of the Tower beneath his feet. Behind him the hum of the quinjet dwindles into the sounds of the city around them. For a half-minute, the winter world is cold and quiet, the scent of snow on the air, and Steve feels his throat tighten with enormous relief to be home. 

He needs to see Bucky. 

He's home a week later than projected; he missed the final day of class and he's pretty sure he missed the movie he promised to take Bucky to on Friday. He needs to get home; he needs to see Bucky, talk to him. 

The ache of exhaustion reaches down into his bones. If he stands here long enough, he wonders, will the cold creep that far too? 

God, he _really_ needs to see Bucky.

"C'mon, Cap, you ran point on this, but you're done now. Medical?" Tony asks, and clasps his hand around Steve's arm. "You look like you need some patching up." 

"No, I'm... I'm okay." Steve does a quick check of the various bruises--he can walk, he can breathe, he's fine. "I need to go home." 

Tony's hand tightens on Steve's arm and he tries to direct him into the Tower. "That ramshackle neighborhood of yours can probably wait. Grab a shower, get some rest. You look like you've been awake for four days. Do you know why? Because you _have been_." 

"Tony, I'm good. Walking and breathing, you know the score." 

Tony sighs, and then rubs both his hands through his hair. "Right. What's his name again? James?" 

"He's--yeah, James," Steve replies. 

"Okay, I feel like I should text your James and tell him to make you take a shower and go to bed and eat something more than a protein bar." 

"He'll do that." Steve tries for a smile, and he feels the warmth of that knowledge flicker in his chest. 

Tony hesitates, but eventually gives a nod. "Debrief day after tomorrow, okay?" 

"That's fine. I'll text you. Actually, I'll call." 

"Call me from James's phone, so I can ask to talk to _him_." 

Steve shakes his head and says goodbye, watches Tony walk into the Tower, knows he's going to do the same as Steve: skip medical, take a hot shower, go home to the person he's been thinking about since they were able to declare this mission over.

Steve takes one more deep breath of the cold air atop the Tower, and then heads down to the garage for his bike. He texts Bucky once to tell him he's home; he can't read the texts Bucky sent him while he was gone. He can't read them and expect to be able to drive home. So, he scrolls past them, and hopes Bucky will understand, and then uses the last of his serum-powered adrenaline to get himself to Bucky's place. The drive is a blur of cold air and empty streets, the buzzing of fatigue in Steve's head. 

“Hey…” Bucky answers the door looking like he rolled out of bed, his hair in disarray, his tee shirt and sweats in no better a condition. “You’re home? You're... _here_.”

“I’m home. I’m really home. No debriefs, no meetings,” he adds when Bucky blinks at him in disbelief. Steve closes the door to Bucky’s apartment behind him and takes a step in. “Well, not yet, anyway… Probably tomorrow. Day after tomorrow, right, I'll have to go back to the Tower, but I wanted... I needed to see you,” he admits. 

That’s when it must hit Bucky that not only is Steve standing in his apartment, but he’s still in his uniform, his tac pants and jacket covered in sweat and dirt, his shield on his back after the drive over. Bucky's still staring at Steve, disbelief still all over his face, and he runs both hands through his hair to pull it back out of his way. 

“Oh, my god. _Steve_. Steve, you _fucking idiot_. I haven’t even heard from you in how many days and you've been gone for ten and you look _awful_. Oh my god. Get in here…” He pulls Steve further into the apartment with one arm, and uses the other to rub the sleep from his eyes. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?” 

Okay, more than a few bruises. His rib cage is definitely hurting, even if he can tell he didn’t crack a rib anywhere along the way, he's pretty bruised up there. His hands are starting to shake a little bit from the cold and the adrenaline crash, and Steve tries to make it stop, he tries as hard as he can so Bucky won't see. 

“You don’t even look like you slept the whole time you were gone." 

"You don't look much better," Steve points out. He has to clench his hands into fists to hold back a shiver; even inside Bucky's warm apartment, he can feel the cold of the winter night, maybe more strongly than he did outside. 

Bucky stops in the hallway, halfway to the sitting room, and gives Steve a closer look. "Yeah. You're right. I was really fucking worried about you, okay? I had to tell the kids there was a _family emergency_ because I was too scared to put my phone away while I was lecturing just in case you-- you tried--" 

"God, Bucky, I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..." Steve feels a shudder run through his body and he realizes all he wants is to be here with Bucky, to be warm and safe and feel like he's home. And that's when it hits _him_. He's not alright, he's tired and cold and hurting, and the world around him aside from Bucky is becoming a blur of pain and shivering exhaustion. "I would've called if I could. We were supposed to go see that movie, and it was--I was--you texted me--I would never--I'm so sorry--" 

"Okay, it's okay... come on..." Bucky pulls him in further into the apartment. "I'm going to run you a shower, okay? You feel up to that? Or do you want a bath? Fuck, Steve, you're freezing, come on," Bucky urges again as he pulls Steve's gloves off and holds Steve's hands in his own. 

Steve shudders again and nods. "Yeah, okay. That's... that sounds so good, Buck. I wanted to come home," he adds, and starts to feel the adrenaline ebb away, feels himself shiver, and feel Bucky pull him closer. 

Bucky smiles, and this time brings Steve's hands into his chest, and just sort of holds them there for a little while before he pulls Steve into a tight, warm hug. He presses his face into Steve's neck and murmurs something fond and quiet, and then hugs Steve even closer when Steve wraps himself up in Bucky. 

"You're home. C'mere," Bucky murmurs and nuzzles against Steve's neck. "The semester's pretty much over, you know that, right? Exams started... You're home, here, with me, we're together now." 

It takes Steve's mind a few seconds to catch up with what Bucky's saying, and when it does, he practically melts right into Bucky. He buries himself in the warmth of Bucky's arms, and the scent of his skin, because now he _can_. 

"Shower?" Steve asks after a minute. He wants to stay this close, but he wants it to be a little more right than this, when he's not covered in dust and dirt and sweat. He's also not sure he can get himself to the shower on his own, or that he can cope with the idea of getting himself undressed and under the spray of hot water without some kind of help. "I think I need--" He says, stops, finds the words difficult to say. 

"Okay." Bucky pulls away enough to get another look at Steve and he reaches up to rest his palm against Steve's cheek. "Let's go into the bathroom." 

Steve nods and presses his cheek against Bucky's hand. He could sink into this sensation too, warm, strong fingers stroking his cheek, Bucky's thumb edging along the curve of his cheekbone, more gentle when he encounters a rising bruise. He nods again when Bucky makes a curious sound and yields when Bucky's hand drops from his cheek to his arm to lead him to the bathroom. 

Bucky turns the shower on first, so that steam fills the room quickly enough, and Steve starts to feel himself warm up. When Bucky reaches up to start helping him out of his suit, relief washes over Steve all at once, leaves him feeling tired and wrung out, makes it easy for him to guide Bucky's fingers to get him out of his jacket, then his boots, his pants and his undershirt. 

"There, good... you'll warm up soon, yeah," Bucky murmurs when a shiver runs down Steve's back. He rubs his hands up and down Steve's arms and pushes him toward the shower. "Go on. I'll get you some clean clothes to put on, and make you a cup of tea. There's soap and shampoo and stuff." 

His hand rests at the base of Steve's spine, careful and reassuring, and Steve feels shyness wash over him, too. He'd hoped this moment would be different, that he wouldn't be overcome with exhaustion, that he'd slip his arms around Bucky and feel the press of their bodies against each other, all naked, warm skin and eager kissing. 

"Hey..." Bucky leans in and presses a quiet kiss to Steve's shoulder. "I'm taking you to bed tonight... and I'm tired, too, so hurry up and shower." 

Steve laughs and turns to Bucky, brushes his lips against Bucky's. "I'm so exhausted and sore... I won't be too long." 

"Stand under the hot water as long as you can, okay? Warm up, relax. Here, just..." 

Bucky helps Steve step into the bathtub, and Steve stands under the hot water for a good few minutes before he hears Bucky finally leave. He's not gone long, and Steve can hear him fiddling with things in the bathroom a little before he asks Steve if he's okay, if he needs anything.

Honestly, Steve more rubs soap all over his body and shampoo into his hair than actually showers, pushing past the pain and fatigue to get it done, but at least he's clean and warm by the time he lets Bucky help him back out of the bathtub. Bucky hands Steve towels, too, and moves in close to rub Steve's back and shoulders dry, and scrubs a towel through his hair. The clothes he hands Steve are his own--a tee shirt, a pair of sweats, some socks. Bucky helps Steve pull them on, too, tugging the shirt over his head and the sweatpants up over his hips, and rests a hand on Steve's chest to rub warmly when Steve makes a hoarse, tired sound. 

Once they get to bed, Bucky places a cup of tea in Steve's hands and sits next to him; he presses another kiss to Steve's shoulder, then to his ear, and starts to rub the back of his neck. He eases up a little when Steve gets tense, then strokes the hair at the nape of Steve's neck. 

"You look like you hurt all over..." 

Steve hesitates. He can feel the reflex to deny kick in, to declare himself fine or, at the very least, reassure Bucky that he'll be fine at some point in the near future. 

"No," Bucky stays, and kisses the point of Steve's shoulder, then leans in closer to nuzzle a softer kiss to his neck. "You don't get to tell me you're fine, not when you're here, in bed with me, and I nearly had to step into the shower with you to make sure you didn't fall over. Do you want me to get you some painkillers?" 

Steve lowers his eyes to his tea, then tips his head to the side in a small nod. "Please?" 

Bucky nods and kisses Steve again, quiet and soft, and eases Steve back against the pillows. "I'll be right back." 

"It's not a big deal. I've been worse off," Steve says, not in protest, but with some of that urge to deflect attention still clinging stubbornly on. 

"Please don't remind me." Bucky pats Steve on the leg before getting off the bed, and pads out of the bedroom down the hall to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. When he returns, he has Advil, a bottle of water, and a granola bar. "I really don't think any of this is a big deal." 

"I'm too tired to come up with a rebuttal," Steve admits. The admission feels good, though, freeing, and he lets out a sigh at the small independence granted to him in letting himself feel vulnerable. Bucky takes the now empty mug from him, hands him the water and granola bar, then a few Advil after he's eaten half of the snack. 

"Do you want more tea?" 

Steve's tempted, but the shadows under Bucky's eyes stop him. Having Bucky in bed with him will be warmer than any cup of tea, anyway, Steve knows, and he shakes his head. 

"What time is it?"

"A little past one..." Bucky makes sure Steve at least finishes his water, then fixes the pillows and smoothes the blankets before shutting off his bedside light and moving in closer to Steve. "Is this... is everything okay? Staying here like this? With me?" 

"Not really how I imagined spending the night at your place for the first time." Steve shifts in bed, then gasps when the pain around his ribcage protests the sudden movement. The urge to say he's fine rises up in his throat, then catches there, and only eases when Steve relaxes under the touch of Bucky's hand on his chest. 

"Yeah, me either. Can't say I mind, though." Bucky leans in to kiss Steve on the cheek, then sighs into the kiss that Steve presses to his parted lips. "But you came home, Steve... You came home to me." 

"Everything's okay. Everything's going to be okay." Steve's too hurt, too tired, and, finally, too sleepy to do anything else, so he kisses Bucky again and nestles into the careful, protective arm Bucky wraps around his chest. 

There's a cold, sharp, winter night outside, a week and a half away from Christmas, and all Steve feels is safe, warm, and sleepy.

*

The bedroom is warm and bright when Steve wakes up, sunlight streaming through the blinds and half-open curtains. He stretches, tests his muscles, finds them sore and stiff, but he feels better than he did last night. Healing will take a few days, but at least he's not shivering and breathing doesn't hurt anymore.

Drifting back into the warm half-asleep daze, Steve thinks of Bucky, his long hair rumpled and his grey-blue eyes sleep-soft and fond before he kissed Steve goodnight last night. He remembers how he's wearing Bucky's clothes, how they ought to be a little too small on him, but how they feel just right, warm and comfortable. He remembers the way they kissed last night, too, soft and quick and sleepy, before they went to bed, and how that had to have been the easiest and most longed for first kiss in his life. 

He probably owes Bucky a better first kiss than that one, though. 

Steve smiles and stretches again, more careful this time, and turns to Bucky, who's curled on his side, watching Steve. 

"Hey... you're awake?" 

"Yeah..." Bucky smiles a little, that soft, sleepy expression on his face again, and reaches over to stroke Steve's chest. "You probably need to get some more rest, though..." 

Steve shrugs, and holds out an arm for Bucky to come curl in closer to him. "C'mon, I'm not in so much pain that I can't hold you." 

Bucky hesitates, then moves carefully in closer, and rests his head against Steve's shoulder. His fingertips wander to Steve's chest and he starts to trace gentle, meandering patterns. He keeps on doing so, even when Steve dozes off, and when Steve wakes up again, Bucky's stroking his stomach lightly. 

"Sleepyhead," Bucky murmurs. He leans up to kiss Steve, and then to kiss him again when Steve reaches up to brush Bucky's hair out of his face. "Is it always like this with you?"

"Like what?" 

"Long, lazy mornings... after weeks of intense worrying." Bucky looks away, biting his lip, and then looks back when Steve touches his thumb to Bucky's lower lip. "Just tell me if it's your kind of normal." 

Steve takes in a breath, and then nods when he sighs it out. "Yeah, I guess so. It doesn't have to be _your_ kind of normal, though." 

"--I know. But I want you to be part of my normal." Bucky kisses Steve's thumb, then the palm of his hand, and then leans up really close to kiss his forehead. 

"I want that too," Steve murmurs. He closes his eyes against the kiss, and lets himself drift into the warmth of Bucky kissing him, of Bucky's hair brushing against his cheek when he kisses the bridge of his nose, and then the corner of his mouth. "I want... something... something normal... a boyfriend," Steve says, and tests how the word feels in his mouth. "You." 

"A boyfriend..." Bucky kisses him again, soft, at the corner of his lips, then fuller on his mouth, still soft, until Steve makes a needy sound against Bucky's lips. "And _you_ , Steve, you have to know I want this so much." 

Steve slides his hand into Bucky's hair to pull him near and kisses him the way he's wanted to kiss him for months, long and deep, tugging Bucky closer and closer until he feels the thrill of their breathless intimacy unfurl deep in his chest. 

It seems almost a wonder that Bucky keeps kissing him, brushing his lips over Steve's in between kisses, teasing and murmuring against his lips until Steve can't take it anymore and pulls him closer into yet another deeper kiss. 

His fingers find that spot right at the center of Steve's chest, the one where he can feel affection and warmth unfurl, where he can feel all his pent-up longing start to unravel, too, and he strokes so lightly, so carefully that Steve almost cries out against the touch. 

"Ssh," Bucky murmurs, nuzzling a kiss into Steve's jaw, "I want to be a little gentle with you this morning. Is that okay?" he asks. His hand smoothes down Steve's chest to his stomach, and strokes gently there, too, until it slips under the tee shirt and his palm rests flat against Steve's side. "Can I... Can I check and make sure you're alright? That's you're whole and warm and safe?" 

Steve nods, but his breath goes unsteady. He's still sore--god, he's so fucking sore and the exhaustion he feels is bone-deep--but he knows now, here with Bucky, he _is_ all those other things, too: whole, warm, safe. 

And that now, in this moment, with them under the blankets and with their hands mapping slow, deliberate paths over each other's skin, that Bucky is warm and safe, too. Steve slides a couple fingers under the waistband of Bucky's sweats and urges him in near enough that Steve can feel the rise and fall of his breath. 

"Too close?" Bucky asks. He eases away and his fingers pet the place where Steve's ribcage is a mess of pain and bruises. 

"... no, stay," Steve says. Bucky shifts a little, and then somehow manages to settle Steve in good and comfortable next to him. 

He thinks, maybe, he drifts off again, between the soft touches and kisses, and Bucky murmuring to him about how they have the whole weekend together. Bucky brings tea and toast back to bed, hands Steve the mug even though he's only half awake, and strokes his hair while he takes a few sips of the hot, sweet tea Bucky likes to drink first thing in the morning. 

"I should read your texts," Steve says as he watches Bucky scroll through the news and messages on his own phone. 

"Oh, those..." Bucky turns aside, hesitates for a second, and turns back when Steve tries to reach for his phone and fumbles, pain stopping him. "Here, read them off my phone... I was so fucking worried about you, I didn't realize how it would feel to have you out there for so long, so far away..." 

Bucky leaves the rest of the thought unspoken, rubbing at his face as Steve reads through the sent messages in their conversation. He hitches himself up to sit against the pillows better, slides his fingers into Bucky's bed-messy hair, and pulls Bucky's head down onto his shoulder. 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah, c'mon..." 

It doesn't matter how sore he is, not when there's that strange, hollow feeling in his chest, that Steve knows can't even be half of what Bucky was feeling while Steve was out on that long mission. 

"I can try to make sure somebody gets in contact with you, when I'm away, and if anything happens. If you're sure you want--if you're sure _this_ is what you really want--" 

"God, Steve, do you even have to ask? I was a _mess_ , I was..." 

Steve kisses the top of Bucky's head and holds him really tight for a few moments. Bucky gives a quiet shudder that's half sigh, half sob, and Steve hugs him even harder until he can tell the moment's passed. 

"HR's going to be really excited when I fill out that emergency contact card," Steve says when Bucky moves away. 

"Oh my god, Steve, you... you really are the worst. You better put my name and number all over that damn thing." Bucky takes his phone back from Steve and opens up his music after closing his messages, then tucks his head into the crook of Steve's shoulder. 

"It's electronic," Steve says. The sad, hollowness in his chest fades, then fills with sleepy affection. "But I will, I promise."

*

Around ten-thirty in the morning Bucky decides they need to eat a real breakfast, not buttered toast and tea with too much milk and sugar, and that Steve needs another round of painkillers.

"Or maybe you should get checked out?" He rests a hand on Steve's back as they shuffle into the kitchen. When Steve shrugs, Bucky nuzzles a kiss against his shoulder. "If you're still really hurt and bruised up?" 

"My body mostly takes care of itself," Steve says. "There's not much med can do about it for me." 

"Yeah, if you let it... Or you could let me take care of you?" Bucky pours two glasses of juice while they wait for the coffee and eggs to finish, then hands Steve a few Advil. "You need food, too. Food, and painkillers, and... sleep?" 

"Yeah, a lot of sleep, pretty much. Thanks," he adds before swallowing the pills with his orange juice. He downs half the glass before he realizes how hungry and thirsty he is. "I might end up sleeping most of today, and I can go home and do that." 

"I'm going to end up spending most of today grading papers. You might want to go home so you don't have to witness that." Bucky makes up two plates of eggs and fruit and more toast, and nudges Steve to sit at the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. "But I really wouldn't complain if you decided to stay here and recover." 

Because he's still a little too sore and bruised to pull Bucky into his lap, Steve turns his head and buries his face in Bucky's side. He breathes in the warmth of his skin and counts off ten beats of his heart before he moves away from Bucky again. 

"I'll stay. I'll be useless, though, unless you need somebody to watch tv for you." 

Bucky kisses the top of Steve's head, and sits down to his own coffee and breakfast. "You can be useless today. Once I get those exams graded and my chapter revised next week, I'll take over." 

"Okay, deal. I'll cook for you then, and bring you tea, and pull you into bed early with me..." Steve stops, looks up from his coffee, and slides his hand up over Bucky's. "I can do that, now. I can take you to bed, and ... and... everything, I can do everything for you," he murmurs, spreading his palm over the top of Bucky's hand, already thinking about how he wants to map his hands all over Bucky's body. 

"You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to that." Bucky slides his fingers up through Steve's, much like he had in his office last month, and lets Steve tug his hand up close again to press kisses to his knuckles. 

They end up camping out on in the living room for the rest of the morning and afternoon. Bucky makes a couple stacks next to the sofa: graded exams and ungraded exams, and gives the ungraded pile a forlorn look before getting out his red pen. 

Steve watches him for a while, listening to him debate short answer replies, and then settles in to watch as many old holiday movies as he can on TCM before Bucky starts wondering what he got himself into for the weekend.

"I don't even want to know how many times you're going to make me watch _A Christmas Carol_ ," he says, dropping another graded blue book onto the pile by the sofa. 

"It's what's on now. And it's not that bad," Steve says. "Some of us haven't had the chance to watch these every year growing up, you know." 

"Sorry, old man. You're going to fall asleep, then I'm going to change the channel, so it's fine." 

The small sitting room is full of mismatched, hand-me-down furniture, overflowing bookshelves and piles of DVDs and CDs, dissertation drafts stacked next to Bucky's desk. Steve's gaze wanders around the room as drowsiness tugs at his senses, and he smiles, content with how very much the place had already come to mean home and Bucky to him. 

Steve fights off the exhaustion as long he can, but his body needs sleep more than anything, and he ends up crashing about halfway through the Ghost of Christmas Future's scene. 

He wakes up once to Bucky draping a knit blanket over him, then shushing him and telling to go back to sleep, then again when he hears his phone ring. 

"Went to voicemail," Bucky tells him, and Steve tries to protest, but Bucky strokes his hair and tells him it's only mid-afternoon, he can sleep. 

There's a different movie on the television when he wakes up for real, and Bucky's stack of ungraded exams is a lot smaller. Bucky, on the other hand, looks a little wild-eyed and keyed up, and he stands and stretches when the credits roll on the television. 

"You feel up to taking a walk? To the pizza place or something?" Bucky threads his fingers through his hair and snags a hair tie from the coffee table to pull it into a messy bun. "I don't have jeans that'll fit you, but clean sweats and a jacket, my running shoes should be okay on you, probably. If you dress as bad as I do when I don't feel good, nobody will recognize you." 

Steve yawns and stretches, too, and makes a pleased sound when he can tell almost a whole morning in bed and one afternoon asleep on the sofa have done his body a whole lot of good. He stands up and goes to tuck a couple strands of hair behind Bucky's ear. It's dark outside, and past dinner time already. They both need to eat and get out of the house for a while, Steve realizes. 

"Yeah, I can do that." He runs a hand through his hair and then rubs both hands down his chest yawning again. The soreness around his ribs is a lot better, and he's starting to feel a lot more like himself. "Wow, thanks, don't go and dress too much better than that, though." 

Bucky laughs and kisses Steve once on the lips, then kisses him again more deeply. "You look like you feel better." 

"I do. A lot better, actually." Steve brushes his nose up and down Bucky's, moving into another kiss. "Good enough to go out with you." 

"Yeah, on a fancy corner pizza place date." Bucky runs his own fingers through Steve's hair, then tugs Steve's lower lip between his own after they kiss a few more times. He sighs when he steps away, then reaches up again and strokes his thumb over Steve's mouth. "We should go out. Get some food and some fresh air." 

Because Steve can tell if they don't go now, they never will, he forces back his own reluctance to leave and pulls Bucky into the bedroom to change. Bucky ends up in old jeans and a flannel again, then boots and his peacoat, and he tosses Steve a few warm layers and his blue baseball cap. 

"There, now you look about as bad as every other grad student at this point in the semester." Bucky rests his hands on Steve's chest, and regards him for a few seconds. "Actually, you look great." 

"You're joking, but I'll take it. Come on, let's get something to eat." 

Outside, the December air is sharp, cold, and clear, and Steve holds Bucky's hand tight in his own on the walk to and from the pizza place. On the way home, they decide to walk around the block the long way, and Steve slides his arm around Bucky's waist. Because he wants to, because he can, because the night is freezing cold by seven p.m., and because nothing has ever felt as good or as warm as having Bucky lean in against him. 

"I have a debrief meeting tomorrow," Steve says. 

"Okay, what time?" Bucky slips in closer when Steve tightens the arm he has around Bucky. "You want to go back to your place first?" 

"Around two. And, yeah, I should do that. Put on something less... grad student-y." He kisses Bucky's hair when Bucky scoffs. 

"I told you, you look good. All soft and rumpled, but masculine and.... You have really great shoulders, Steve," Bucky says, and gives Steve this _look_. 

The soft sort of look that, combined with the crystal clear cold night, leaves Steve's chest a little tight and breathless. He pulls Bucky in a little closer, so he can kiss him, but Bucky smiles, teasing and suddenly sweet. 

"And you're wearing my clothes." Bucky slides both hands up Steve's chest and rests them right below his shoulders as he leans in to brush his lips against Steve's. "Do you have any idea what that does for me?" he murmurs, draws back to lick his lips, then leans in against and this time brushes the quietest, softest kiss to Steve's lips. 

Steve laughs low in his throat and takes a step closer to Bucky. "What is it? The sweats? Or the old Army tee shirt?" 

"Yeah," Bucky says and shakes his head when Steve laughs again. He slips one hand up to cup the side of Steve's face, gentle for a second, then pulls him into a kiss that speaks more of urgency and desire than anything else. 

The breathless, needy feeling catches Steve by surprise. Here they are, on a quiet, cold city street corner, the wind catching the sound of voices and footsteps around them, and the warmth of their bodies between them. Steve closes his eyes as he leans into the next kiss and silently thanks the cover of the cold winter night that allows him to stand here, anonymous and completely in love with his boyfriend. 

"Let's go home," Steve says, and kisses Bucky once more before tucking him back in against his side for the rest of the short walk back. 

Not short enough, though, not for the unfolding desire and need that Steve feels in chest. He holds Bucky's hand tight in his own until the elevator, and then makes a helpless sound when Bucky's warm fingers find the base of his spine as the door closes in front of them. 

Steve's good for about ten seconds, then Bucky slips two fingers into the waistband of the borrowed sweats, and all Steve can think about is how long they've been waiting, how many months have passed before they've even let themselves get this near. 

"Buck," he says, and his voice is hoarse with the want he's kept too close inside. 

"Yeah, Steve?" Bucky turns to him; a few strands of hair frame his face, he's a little flushed from the cold air, and he looks like all he wants is to get Steve to himself. "Yeah, come on..." 

After he pulls Steve out of the elevator, everything is a frantic blur of sloppy kisses and desperate touches. Bucky laughs when he has to hand his key to Steve to unlock the door, because he's already got both his arms around Steve and doesn't want to let go. Not that Steve's any better, he fumbles the first time, then gasps when Bucky slips his fingers under all the layers Steve has on to discover the ticklish spot over his right hip. 

"Oh, god, you're... so... _so_ ," Bucky says. He pushes Steve inside, then pushes the door closed and locked, and gets back to finding his way inside the clothes he'd tossed at Steve a few hours ago. 

He's not slow or methodical about it, and Bucky's happy enough to leave the pile of clothes and shoes in the middle of his living room. Except when he gets Steve down to his borrowed Army tee shirt and boxers, then he stops. He's in his own navy blue boxer briefs, half-hard already, his hair still up, and he stands in front of Steve, really quiet for a moment. 

"Keep that on for a couple more minutes, I really do love you in that shirt," he says, but when Steve's gaze wanders over his chest and shoulders, he looks away, deferential and suddenly bashful. 

Steve doesn't say anything, though, gently moves his fingers over the faded scars on Bucky's left arm and shoulder, feels a pang in his chest that's memory and sympathy and desire all in one. Bucky doesn't exactly flinch away at the touch, but he tenses, and doesn't look back at Steve until he relaxes again. 

Steve's never wanted anyone as much as he wants Bucky right now; he's never even had anyone to want the way he has Bucky now, and Steve cannot stop himself from touching Bucky once he starts. He wants his hands all over Bucky's body, over his strong shoulders and arms, over the flat of his stomach and tracing down to the soft, dark hair to his erection. Steve wants his mouth there, too, and the thought hits him with a pulse of desire that makes him harder. 

"You're gorgeous," he says, and it's like his heart is right there in his throat. He strokes the back his hand over Bucky's cheek down to his left shoulder, then reaches behind his neck to pull his hair loose.

Bucky's hair falls, soft and dark, to his shoulders, and when he turns aside for a moment, his eyelashes fan dark over his cheekbones. 

"You're so gorgeous..." Steve repeats. 

Bucky makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat and slips both his arms up around Steve's neck. He doesn't kiss Steve again, not yet, but rests his forehead against Steve's, closes his eyes, and then leans into the kiss that Steve initiates. 

"Bedroom?" Bucky asks, as if Steve's even thinking of saying no. "I needed a minute... It's been awhile since anyone's seen that." 

Steve nods, but he lets Bucky hold onto the moment a little longer, both of them close, their breathing a steady, matching rhythm. "Come on, let me take care of you this time..." 

It takes one more kiss, and a press of Steve's thigh against Bucky's rising erection, to get the urgency back into the way Bucky breathes against his lips. This time, he makes a tiny, helpless sound when Steve keeps kissing him, hardly allowing him to breathe in between, and makes an even more urgent one when Steve walks him back into the bedroom. 

He half-sits, half-falls onto the bed, pulling Steve down with him, and slides his arms back around Steve's neck as soon as Steve starts kissing him again. When he arches up into the kisses, his breath ragged, his hands starting to roam over Steve's back, he's so hard already. 

"C'mon, Steve," he mutters, breath already caught in another kiss, "m'done looking at you in my shirt... _c'mon_..." Bucky pulls at the hem of Steve's shirt, then tickles him above his hip. 

The throaty laugh Steve gives gets him a sound of appreciation, and he lets Bucky start to pull his shirt off for him. When Steve goes to pull it over his head, he leans away from Bucky, and hears Bucky make another soft, pleased sound as he does so. His fingers trail up over Steve's stomach, then stroke gently over his ribcage.

"Are you still sore?" he asks, his touch lighter as he skims over a fading bruise. "Jesus, you look... look at you..." Bucky's hands move over his chest and trace his collarbones, then stroke down over Steve's chest again, down to the waist of his borrowed boxers and Bucky raises an eyebrow. 

For some reason, that one little look is the one that gets Steve to blush, warm and sudden over his face and neck, and he can feel the flush spread to his chest as Bucky continues to watch him. "... already saw me," he says. 

"That was different. You were hurting so much, all I wanted was to hold you..." Bucky unhooks one finger from Steve's waistband to cup his hardness against his palm. "You feel so good, Steve..." 

Bucky's voice dips into a lower, needier tone and while the flush doesn't fade from Steve's skin, his shyness does. He slips the boxers off, then does the same for Bucky, and then leans back for Bucky to press his palm up against the length of his cock again.

"So good," Bucky repeats. He rubs his thumb over the tip of Steve's erection, gives a satisfied _oh_ at the way Steve yearns into the touch, and the little shudder of desire he gives. 

Steve falls into the thrill that goes through him, that starts at the base of his spine and seems to spiral through him and make him dizzy with the pleasure of discovery, and of being discovered. Bucky's hand presses to, then strokes down the length of his cock, traces the inside of his thigh, and he makes a pleased noise when Steve leans down closer to him. 

If there were a way for Steve to map out his desire, to put three months of need and longing into each of his touches and kisses, then he would do it ten times over. 

He presses his lips to the point of Bucky's left shoulder, one warm, lingering kiss against his skin, and then maps his mouth over Bucky's chest. He murmurs his need into Bucky's skin, and comes to nuzzle his nose and lips into the soft, dark hair below his navel. 

"Wanted you for so long," Steve murmurs and nuzzles in against Bucky again, breathing in the scent of soap and skin and arousal. 

Bucky laughs, but it's a short gasp of a laugh, and his hips stutter when Steve presses a trail of kisses down to the base of his dick. All Steve has to do there is nuzzle in a little closer, rub his cheek up against the length of Bucky's cock and he's so hard and needy for Steve, trying to rub himself all over Steve's face. 

Steve makes a quiet shushing noise, kisses the tip of his dick, then takes Bucky full into his mouth. He can feel the jolt of sudden need that goes through Bucky and Steve takes him in a little deeper, working his tongue along the underside of his erection. 

"Steve... _Steve_ , oh god..." Bucky tries to arch up closer again, but Steve sets one hand at his hip and holds him down. When Steve looks up at him, he groans again and licks his own lips. "Jesus, you're pretty..." 

Steve expects embarrassment, but instead flushes hot and quick with need. He pulls his mouth off Bucky halfway, giving himself some time and space to tease Bucky a little bit, playing his tongue over the tip of his cock and even easing up the hold he has on Bucky's hip. Bucky gives another groan, though, and Steve knows that he's been holding onto his own need and his own yearning for too long. When Steve flicks another glance up at him, Bucky's got one hand tangled in the sheets, the other arm over his head, and he's glassy-eyed and flushed. 

The sight makes Steve moan around Bucky's cock, and if things get a little rushed and sloppy from there, well Steve's not sure if either of them are going to complain later. He coaxes Bucky to his climax with his mouth and tongue, all messy with spit and come, and holds his palm flat against Bucky's hip. He still arches against Steve, still pushes closer and closer to him, and comes with a low, hoarse sound that gets pulled from deep inside him when Steve swallows as he comes. 

He says Steve's name in the same hoarse, deep voice when Steve slips up the length of his body to press their mouths together in a kiss, and keeps kissing Steve, careless and open-mouthed, as he gets his hand around Steve. 

And that's all Steve's been wanting all these months: to have Bucky's hands all over him, to have Bucky touch him and map his hands over Steve's body, too. The realization that he has Bucky now, that he'll fall asleep and wake up next to him, that he'll come with Bucky's hands on his body and Bucky's sex-rough voice in his ears, sends such a shudder through Steve that he feels helpless. 

He comes hot and messy and too fast over Bucky's hand and stomach, his heart and his breath pounding in his chest, and then pleasure, warm and all-encompassing, filtering through all his senses. 

He curls into Bucky, warm and sleepy and a little sore, and they doze off and talk quietly, touching each other's hands and lips and chests, before cleaning up and falling asleep.

*

The days leading up to Christmas are a rush of post-mission debriefs and news reports and clean up on Steve's part, and end of semester grading and dissertation revisions on Bucky's. They spend a lot of late nights together, first over Facetime when Steve's meetings in the Tower take up the better part of three days, and then at Steve's apartment when Bucky decides he's altogether sick of his own.

"What about Christmas Eve? We can spend Christmas Eve together..." Bucky asks a couple days before Christmas itself. He has his head in Steve's lap and turns to press a kiss to Steve's stomach through his tee shirt when Steve shrugs. "Okay, and Christmas, but after I do the family stuff... Or you could just come with me to the family dinner?" 

Steve goes oddly shy about the question, and reaches down to brush Bucky's hair out of his face. He strokes his cheek, then between his eyebrows when Bucky looks up at him with a thoughtful frown. 

"That's your family, you have traditions and... and.." Steve frowns, too, and shrugs again. 

"Come for dessert? It's okay, baby," he murmurs in a softer voice, and pulls Steve's hand into his own. "Whenever you're ready, alright? You can come pick me up from my Ma's and we can come back here on Christmas night." 

Steve slides his fingers to intertwine with Bucky's. The remnants of their Thai takeaway is on the coffee table, and Bucky looks happy to be curled up on the sofa, his feet tucked under a rumpled blanket, his face turning to nuzzle against Steve's stomach again. 

"I'll come for dessert. Do they--do they know?" Steve asks. His chest goes a little tight with worry when Bucky gives him a quick frown, then eases when Bucky shakes his head at him. 

"I've been out to my family since I was nineteen, and yeah, they know I have a boyfriend named Steve who's kinda old-fashioned. They're cool with it, Steve." Bucky kisses Steve's knuckles, and then brings their hands to rest against his chest. "Do you like pie? My Ma will make you something special, don't worry." 

"Oh, Buck, don't... I'll eat whatever. Should I dress up?" 

Bucky smiles, warm and content, and rubs his thumb against Steve's hand. "Wear something cute so I can show off my handsome boyfriend. That blue sweater..." 

"Okay. Special for you, the blue sweater." Steve tightens his hand around Bucky's and settles himself into the idea of having plans and people all around him for the holiday season.

*

Christmas morning and afternoon, Steve spends back at the middle school serving breakfast and lunch and handing out holiday gifts with Tony and Nat. When he sends Bucky a picture of the tree and the menorah and Kwanzaa symbols set up in the cafeteria, he gets back a picture of Bucky looking sleepy amidst the organized chaos of his mother's Christmas morning kitchen.

_She made you an apple pie. We've already been told it's FOR STEVEN. You're already her favorite child..._

Steve laughs to himself and snaps a selfie in his baseball cap and hoodie, and replies: _I guess I'm dressing up later for your Ma, then._

Two holiday songs later, Steve gets another picture of Bucky, with his mother this time, and the caption: _She says you look fine already, but maybe a little too nice and too YOUNG for me. Oh my god. HER NEW FAVORITE CHILD._

Steve laughs aloud that time and finds himself getting out his phone between the rush of meals and gifts, gazing at the couple pictures of Bucky from that morning, and thinking that he's not only nervous, but also excited. Excited and happy, and that maybe he's not ready for a big family holiday celebration, but he's also not willing to spend any of the holidays alone anymore. The realization strikes him sudden and certain in the middle of a middle school cafeteria: he doesn't want or need to be lonely, not when he has this great city that he loves, and this man with whom he's very much in love. 

Although Bucky's family has their big Christmas meal together in the middle of the afternoon, Steve's pretty sure they're not on dessert yet by the time he gets home. He showers and gets dressed anyway, pulling on the soft, light grey-blue vee-neck sweater Bucky asked for, with dark jeans and a plaid button up shirt. He spends about ten minutes more than he needs to scrutinizing himself in the mirror, wondering if he's managed to look more like himself than... 

... than Captain America, he knows that's what he's looking for, as he peers at himself in the mirror. He's not particularly remarkable in the looks department; his nose still looks a little too big for his face, and his hair doesn't have the same lighter blond color it did when he was younger. 

For a second, Steve's mind skips back to his own mother, how she used to call him Steven like Bucky's Ma does, then to how his classmates called him Steven, too, and only called him Steven even after half of them probably already realized who he was. He thinks of Bucky calling him Stevie special to annoy him and leaning over his shoulder to read the menu at Lucio's, his arm around Steve's waist, smiling into the curve of Steve's neck when Steve gets exasperated at the nickname. 

The feeling that catches in Steve's chest is a mixture of gratitude, sadness, and nostalgia, and the quiet realization that he never stopped being himself, that he didn't lose himself in the war and the ice, all the time spent lost and the days that felt like he's fighting another war. Maybe he'd misplaced the feeling of home. 

He grabs his jacket, keys, and phone, and steps out into the winter afternoon with all those feelings crowding his chest. A few deep breaths of the brisk air add exhilaration to it, and Steve texts Bucky as he starts walking towards his bike. 

_I'm two hours early, is that okay? Should I bring anything? I'm bringing wine._

Right before Steve gets on his bike, he receives a series of texts:

_That is very very okay. Come now!_

_We're eating. I'll make you a plate._

_I'll meet you outside the house, too. Okay?_

_Did Tony give you the wine? Definitely bring the wine. Oh my god please bring more wine._

As promised, Bucky's outside the house when Steve rounds the corner. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. Steve catches him in profile for a few seconds, his face tipped toward the pale winter sky, before Bucky sees him. 

"Steve!" Bucky gives him a bright, excited smile, and even walks down the front stairs to meet Steve on the sidewalk. He reaches for the wine, then takes Steve's hand into his own and leans up to brush a kiss over his lips. "Hey, baby..." 

"Hey..." Steve touches his forehead to Bucky's. The winter air smells clean and sharp, with a hint of woodsmoke and the possibility of snow, and Steve closes his eyes as he draws in a deep breath and slides one arm around Bucky. "Merry Christmas," he says, then, "I love you, Bucky..." 

Bucky's lips press to Steve's again, quiet and soft, and Steve can feel Bucky smile against his mouth. "I love you, too. _God_ , do I..." 

Steve draws Bucky into his chest, tightens his arm around Bucky when he shivers, and holds him close against the winter chill. Bucky kisses Steve once more, long, deep, and sweet, and reaches up to cup his palm against Steve's cheek. 

They get about ten more seconds of privacy and quiet before the door to the Barnes' house bangs open, and what looks like one of Bucky's younger cousins yells out _James!_ in that way only younger cousins can, drawing out the vowels into an insistent summons.

"Yeah, we're comin', no need to tell the whole neighborhood," Bucky says, and slips his hand into Steve's as the screen door bangs closed. "Big Irish-Catholic family Christmas dinner, exactly what you always wanted, right?" 

"Pretty much," Steve replies, and grins when Bucky squeezes his hand at the lack of sarcasm in his reply. 

"Okay, but let me warn you first: somebody's going to talk about the president, somebody's going to talk about the pope, and somebody's going to ask you about baseball." Bucky pauses at the front doorstep and holds Steve's hand even tighter. "They care way more about what baseball team you support than about you being bi or Captain America, so... Keep that in mind. Ready?" 

From inside the house, Steve can catch the rise and fall of conversation, the clink of dishes against silverware, the muted sound of a television in another room; it sounds and feels and smells like home, and Steve's throat tightens a little. 

"Ready," he says. 

Bucky turns to give Steve a quick kiss on the cheek, then nods and opens the door. He laughs when he realizes nearly _all_ his little cousins are waiting for them, and yells for his Ma to let her know her Steven's there to eat with them.

*

"... her new favorite child," Bucky teases Steve as they walk down the front steps and onto the sidewalk after the long Christmas dinner; he kisses Steve on the shoulder when Steve rolls his eyes.

"Are you kidding? You are such a mama's boy, doing the dishes and cleaning everything up, and sitting with your Ma the whole time after dinner." Steve gets his arm around Bucky's shoulder and presses his face into Bucky's hair to nuzzle against him affectionately. "You're definitely her favorite." 

Bucky laughs, then hugs Steve, and makes a soft, low sound. "Damn, if I knew that's what got you going, I would've played that card a long time ago. Here, I thought it was the professor thing, but it's the mama's boy thing?" 

"No, it's... it's not--" Steve blushes, full on warmth up and down his face and neck blushes, and hides his face in Bucky's hair when Bucky laughs at him. "It's just you, Buck..." 

Bucky laughs at Steve again, but it's a low, fond laugh, comfortable and quiet, and he pulls Steve into such a warm hug that Steve feels his throat go a little tight again. "C'mere, baby," Bucky murmurs. "Let's go home..." 

Steve tips his head down into the kiss Bucky gives him, and holds Bucky for a good, solid minute in the middle of the cold winter evening and with the festive glow of the neighbors' Christmas lights around them. 

When they get back to his place, Steve turns on the holiday lights he and Bucky strung up around his small sitting room, but leaves the other lights off. Bucky settles Steve down onto the sofa, one arm around Steve's shoulders as he slips his phone from his pocket and brings up his music. 

"I sometimes play it for the kids, when we're doing wartime era art and music, but this playlist is just for you. My old-fashioned guy," Bucky adds, teasing and fond and sweet, and leans in to kiss Steve behind his ear. 

"Guess that makes you my best guy," Steve says, expecting Bucky to laugh at him again, but he slides his hand up Steve's chest instead and rests it there while he kisses Steve's neck. 

"Better believe it, sweetheart." 

Steve tips his head to the side with a pleased sound. Before Bucky, there'd been other guys, but there'd never been a guy like Bucky, never one who made Steve feel like he fit perfect and right next to their body. Only Peggy had ever made him feel like his body was good and right both before and after the serum, and the warmth swelling in Steve's chest tells him that Bucky would've felt the same, wouldn't have cared if Steve were a foot shorter or needed an inhaler to get him through a run. Bucky murmurs something against his skin, soft and sweet again, and Steve gives a small sigh in response. He wants this, he wants to be close to Bucky, as close as possible, to feel how their bodies fit together and move against each other. 

Sliding a hand into Bucky's cardigan, Steve strokes his side, spans his hand over Bucky's ribcage, and nudges him into a kiss. And then another kiss, and then _another_ , and then they are kissing with heated urgency. Steve turns his head to the side when Bucky kisses the corner of his mouth, and runs his hand back down to Bucky's hip. 

"Steve," Bucky says, lips against Steve's mouth. "What do you need?"

 

Steve's breath shakes when he says "you," and he thinks, someday, he's going to be good with asking, but all he says is _you_ and strokes his thumb up and down into the notch of Bucky's hip. 

Bucky kisses him again, softly, and then once more, really lightly, and draws Steve from the sofa to the bedroom. 

The music from the living room sounds quiet and tinny, almost as if it's on the radio, and Steve's heart catches a little at the thought. They undress each other quietly to the sound of the music, and Bucky murmurs kisses down the length of Steve's body after he gets him onto the bed. 

There aren't any visible bruises or scars on Steve's torso, but Bucky finds all the hidden places, all the vulnerables ones, all the places where Steve's body holds the memories of pain, and he kisses those, too. There's a map etched beneath his skin, muscle memory and long-held desire, and Steve lets out small, sobbing gasp when Bucky moves his hands down Steve's chest to his hips. 

He's hard already, hard enough that Bucky's strong, sure touch makes him want more. He wants to become unmapped, unraveled, and to be known, wants Bucky inside him. 

Steve fumbles through the bedside table for lube and condoms, somehow manages to toss them in Bucky's vicinity, and gives Bucky a pleading look. "Please, Buck. Now... I'm ready..." 

Bucky strokes Steve's hip, then leans down to press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. "Sweetheart," he murmurs. "Relax, I got you... I love you," he adds. 

Steve can _feel_ the shape of the words against his skin, feels himself repeat them in a harsh whisper, but no touch feels enough, not Bucky's lips on his skin or his fingers, warm and slick, inside Steve. He prepares Steve so carefully, though, that Steve is a mess, hard and needy, pushing himself back on Bucky's fingers as he tries to draw them out. 

Bucky doesn't leave him empty long enough for Steve to protest; in a few moments, there's fullness, and a soft sigh from Bucky, and then a sound of complete and utter pleasure as he fills Steve. He's got one hand braced on Steve's hip, his hair's dark and sweat damp at the temples, and his face is flushed with desire. With each breath, his chest rises and falls, and Steve can see how he's waiting, how his mouth is damp and pink from all the kissing, and how his need seems to tremble at the edge of his breath. 

Steve moves first, pushes himself back on Bucky again, and then Bucky gives a low, chest-deep sound and he is inside Steve, deep inside him, and the world becomes a dizzying spiral of need and pleasure. 

His body still humming from his orgasm, Steve curls himself up around Bucky and rests his head against Bucky's chest. He loves this so much, dozing off next to Bucky, warm and sated, and then talking in hushed voices between kisses before they fall asleep again. 

"Did you have a good Christmas?" Bucky asks, drowsy and happy. 

Steve nods against Bucky's chest and turns to nuzzle a kiss there. "Very good."

*

The week between Christmas and New Year's drifts into one of vague deadlines and indeterminate wake up and sleep times. Bucky stays at Steve's for a few days after Christmas, halfheartedly working on his chapter revisions on Steve's tablet, making eggs and pancakes for dinner in Steve's pajamas, watching old movies until well past midnight while Steve falls asleep against his shoulder.

"I should probably go home and change my clothes," Bucky says. It's the middle of the morning, three days after Christmas, and he's handing Steve a cup of hot tea. "You can come with me, we could go for a run. You're still pretty keyed up." 

Steve pulls Bucky to stand in the vee of his thighs. He'd been called in late last night to run point for one of the strike team's missions, and he can still feel the residual post-mission adrenaline coursing through him. "I like you in my clothes. Really like how you slept in my boxers last night..."

"Yeah? Thought that good morning blowjob was a clue." Bucky steps in closer, and slides one hand through Steve's hair. "Let me go grab some stuff, and we can come back to your place. It's been a long year, and we deserve a few days like this." 

Steve can't argue with that. He knows, sooner or later, another mission alert will come through for him, that as the old year slips into the new, Bucky will have syllabi and conference papers to work on, and the real world will be their world again. 

So it doesn't matter, really, if they go for a run and take a shower together at Bucky's place or his, or if they end up with their hands and mouths all over each other in Bucky's bedroom, tumbling onto the unmade bed and adding their clothes to the pre-Christmas, end of semester laundry pile. 

It doesn't matter how short of a Christmas break they get, Steve's going to take every second, every single short moment and long, lazy hour, and get as much time with Bucky as he can. 

 

 ** _January_**

 

"Grading? No, you don't have students yet, so you can't be..." 

"Syllabus..." Bucky looks up from his computer and smiles to see Steve standing in the doorway to his office. "Hey, you. Did you just get back?" 

Steve nods and walks into Bucky's office, taking the spare seat kept for student conferences. "A couple hours ago. Went back to work to clean up, had to file a couple of reports. I thought I'd take my boyfriend out to lunch..." 

Bucky makes a quiet, thoughtful sound, types a couple lines into his document, and then turns to Steve with a surprised look. "Oh. It's _lunchtime_. You've been gone for..." He stops to check his phone. "... thirty-eight hours, and you're worried about taking me to lunch?" 

"I slept on the way home. I promise." 

"And you let medical check you out?" 

"Yeah? Kind of..." Steve shrugs. "I'm good, I promise that, too. I did the self check-in at med." 

The tension in Bucky's shoulders eases and he leans back in his chair. Instead of the neat, pressed shirts and trousers he usually wears to class, he's dressed in his usual on campus but not teaching outfit: jeans, tee shirt, plaid flannel, boots, hair pulled into a bun. He's probably been in his office for a few hours, at least, judging by the worn expression on his face and the empty travel mug on his desk. 

"C'mon, professor, you can manage lunch with your guy, right?" Steve reaches over to tuck Bucky's hair behind his ear, and strokes his cheek. He needs a shave, actually, but the couple days of scruff looks good on him. "You can brave the cold for soup and sandwiches, right?" 

Bucky stretches and reaches back to pull his hair loose, groaning a little as he does so. "Okay, yeah, I can do that. If you don't mind waiting a little while, we could even head home after we eat." 

"You get an hour." Steve leans in to run his own fingers through Bucky's hair, then smiles when Bucky leans into the touch. He's got a sketchbook and a couple pencils in his jacket pocket, and enough inspiration to get him through an hour of drawing while Bucky finishes up work on that syllabus.

*

"Oh." Bucky gives the room a once over and frowns. "It's ... yeah. Like you said: nice, but utilitarian."

"Pretty sure I said cold and impersonal," Steve says. They're standing in the middle of his apartment in the Avengers Tower, it's after three o'clock in the morning, and Steve's pretty sure the sweats Bucky has on are ones he wore to sleep that night. 

They wouldn't even be here if Steve didn't have a debrief in less than two hours, a sprained wrist and a couple torn ligaments in his hand, and an incredibly, ridiculously fussy boyfriend. They're both tired and cranky, and Steve kind of hates it here, hates how it doesn't look or feel or even smell like home, how he loves his work and he loves his team, but all he wants right now is to be _home_. 

"Let me take that... you really fucked your wrist up, didn't you? God..." Bucky takes Steve's tablet from him, then starts to help him out of his jacket. "And don't look at me like that, you know you'd do the same if I came home like this." 

"We're both in trouble if you come back from an academic conference like _this_." Steve bites back a sound of pain when Bucky tugs off his jacket, and then lets his breath out in a measured sigh when Bucky leans back in to zip his sweatshirt closed over his chest. 

"Hey. Full-contact academic debate exists." Bucky rubs Steve's chest. "You got special painkillers from medical?" 

"Yeah, but... Buck, they put me to sleep, you know that. I have that meeting," Steve says. 

"Okay, we're going to sit on your boring, Stark-issued sofa, watch something on the television, and try not to fall asleep? Okay, no, at least one of us is going to fall asleep watching infomercials." Bucky leads Steve over to the sofa, watches him sit, then wanders over to the rarely used kitchen. "I'm guessing you have water here, at least?" 

"Yeah... maybe some tea, if you want any?" 

"Hm. Which one of us spent five hours out in the cold in the middle of the night?" 

Steve leans his head back against the sofa. He's tired, and his wrist really hurts, and he'd probably take hot water if it meant Bucky would come back and sit down with him for a little while. 

He gets tea, though, and Bucky's hand running through his hair, over and over, until he finishes the tea and closes his eyes for a little while.

*

"Do all grad students grocery shop on Friday nights this late?"

Bucky picks up a box of pasta and frowns. "I don't know. Do all Avengers?" 

Steve rests his chin against Bucky's shoulder and plucks the box of penne from his hands. "Only me, because I've got you." 

"Yeah, you do." Bucky glances over his shoulder, smiles, and reaches for the pasta sauce.

*

"Again?" Bucky turns when Steve's phone buzzes, frown already on his face. "But you just got home..."

Steve slows his steps to a walk as Bucky does. They're finishing up an afternoon run, taking advantage of the sun and slightly warmer day, and Steve allows himself a couple more seconds to enjoy it before he pulls his phone from his pocket. 

"Again," he says. Steve reads through his messages, feels his heart sink a little at the mention of top level confidentiality. "I'll make sure somebody gets in touch with you. It shouldn't be too dangerous, but ... I'll be out of touch. I can't tell you anything else, I'm sorry..." 

The expression on Bucky's face goes from confused to worried in the space of a moment, and he moves in put his arms around Steve. "Okay. Okay, so... how long do we have before you leave?" 

Steve rechecks his messages. "A couple hours?" 

"Right. Home. Fast as you can," Bucky says, and drags Steve along to finish their run back to his place. 

Then, when they get there, he pulls Steve into his arms and kisses him, desperate and breathless. 

"Just come home, okay? Come home safe, Steve, just come home," Bucky says between rough kisses, his hands twisting into Steve's hoodie. 

"It won't be like last month, it's won't be like that..." Steve rubs his hands up and down Bucky's sides and lets himself get pulled into another kiss, fraught with need. When he moves away, Bucky catches Steve's lower lip between his teeth. 

"Just tell me you'll come home, you'll try and come home as soon as you can." Bucky tightens the grip he has on Steve's shirt, and leans up to kiss him again when Steve nods. 

Steve feels it then, the desperate arousal that courses through Bucky, that catches in his own chest. They don't have time to be gentle with each other in the hour before Steve leaves, and, Steve knows, Bucky doesn't want him to be gentle, then, he wants Steve to bring him off hard and fast, and he wants to feel Steve shudder against him. 

In the last few minutes before Steve departs, when he's half-suited up and full of nervous energy, when he glances at Bucky hovering in the doorway of the bedroom, hair rumpled and eyes soft with worry, that's the moment stills, gentle and quiet between them. 

Steve kisses Bucky once on the cheek, then on the lips, and smiles when Bucky's fingertips brush against his jaw. 

"I'll be home soon." 

"I know."

*

By the time Steve gets back to New York, his eyes are burning and his muscles aching with fatigue. He dozed off for about an hour on the quinjet, but stayed awake enough the entire time to hear the hum of the plane and his teammates' voices. He’s pretty sure that nobody else on his team got any good rest, either.

He texts Bucky as soon as they get back to the Tower, certain that as it’s already past ten at night, he's at home, even if he's not awake. 

It’s after midnight when Steve finally, _finally_ gets to Bucky's apartment. The sitting room is quiet and dim, and only the light above the stove in the kitchen is turned on. Steve leaves his shoes by the door, his jacket draped over the sofa, and his suit's garment bag in the coat closet. 

From the kitchen, he gets himself a glass of water, and grabs the post-it from the fridge telling him there's dinner if he's hungry. He should probably eat, but he really wants to get in bed and relax, try and get some rest if he can, hear about Bucky's first week of classes. Steve refills his glass after finishing the water, then flicks off the light in the kitchen and pads into the bedroom. 

Where Bucky’s sort of awake, sitting up in bed, and looking a lot more rumpled and tired than Steve expected him to. He has a book in his lap, but Steve’s willing to bet he wasn’t actually reading it, if the bleary way he’s looking at Steve is any indication. The way he rubs at his face is completely endearing, however, and Steve can’t resist the urge to get close to him as soon as possible 

“Hey, honey,” Steve leans in to kiss Bucky on the cheek. “You look so sleepy.” He brushes Bucky’s hair back off his face and leans in again for another kiss. 

Bucky shrugs. “Dozed off while you were on your way here. You’re not hungry? There's chicken and pasta in the fridge." 

"Not really. I had something quick at work." Steve stands to strip down to his tee shirt and boxers and slides in next to Bucky, resting his head against Bucky’s shoulder and closing his eyes for a few seconds as he warms up next to his boyfriend. "You sound congested..." 

"Yeah. I have a cold." Bucky shifts so he can turn off the light and the both of them can get more comfortable with the pillows and blankets. “Should I have warned you?” he asks when Steve sits up to look at him. “I was so glad to hear from you, I wasn't even thinking about it, and then I was pretty much half-out of it when you were texting on the way home…” 

Steve leans right over Bucky to turn the light back on and then leans back so he can get a better look at Bucky. He’s wearing one of Steve’s tee-shirts, when he usually pulls on a pair of pajamas pants after he showers before bed. His eyes look tired and dull, and like he’d been rubbing at them, a little pink around the edges, just that side of watery. And his nose--his nose is so pink, probably all the evidence Steve would have needed to tell him that Bucky has a cold. 

Steve can't help the frown that crosses his face and he leans in to stroke Bucky’s cheek. "Are you okay? Do you want me to get you anything? You should've said you were sick... When did you get sick?" 

Bucky's fingers rifle through Steve's hair and he nudges Steve's head back down, gentle and sure. "A couple days ago? I'm fine, it’s only a head cold. Sneezing and coughing and a really stuffed-up nose,” he adds, before Steve can ask. “Annoying, but not too bad. I always seem to get sick when the spring semester starts...” 

“Okay.” Steve tucks his head in against Bucky’s shoulder and wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist. “But let me know if you need anything.” 

“And you let me know if I keep waking you up or whatever. I can sleep on the sofa.” 

“You won’t need to do that.” Steve nestles in closer to Bucky, good and warm, and kisses the side of his neck. 

And he doesn’t. Steve is pretty sure that once he falls asleep, he doesn't even wake up until it’s well into the morning. His body is used to him getting up around five a.m., but today he’s probably just as tired as Bucky is, and doesn't wake up until his boyfriend’s alarm goes off. 

Bucky's mostly still asleep, his face pressed half into his pillow, when Steve reaches over to shut off his alarm. He looks over at Steve, confused, and then coughs a little.

"Good morning," Steve says and leans in to nuzzle a few kisses into Bucky's hair. "Do you need to be on campus this morning?" When Bucky shakes his head, Steve kisses him again and rubs his back. "Right, go back to sleep, I'm going to get breakfast." 

Bucky nods into his pillow and mutters something when Steve fusses at him with the blankets and rubs his back some more when he starts coughing. He brings Bucky breakfast in bed, makes him tea, and convinces him to stay in bed until he needs to leave for a lunch meeting on campus.

*

"That's nice," Steve murmurs when Bucky curls in against his side. He's scrolling through the news on his phone, trying to figure out if any of it will herald yet another mission, and stroking Bucky's hair in the hopes he'll doze off against Steve.

"Hmm? Good... you've been working so much this month," Bucky says and reaches for Steve's phone. "I finally get you to myself and all you want to do is read the news?" 

The cold's left Bucky's voice low and husky, especially after a morning of lecturing, and Steve's pretty sure he's using it to his advantage. Not that Bucky has to try very hard; Steve really has been gone for more of January than he's been home, and sprawling out on Bucky's sofa at the end of a day of teaching and meetings had been what they both ended up wanting. 

Bucky slips the phone from Steve's hand, and rests his head back against Steve. He flicks through a few things on the screen, looks at the weather, and then rubs his face in against Steve's shoulder. "Supposed to snow tonight..." 

"Yeah? A lot?" 

"A good few inches." Bucky puts Steve's phone on the coffee table and rests his hand on Steve's chest. "I'm going to get drowsy if you keep doing that," he says when Steve starts stroking his hair again. 

"That's the plan, Buck." 

Bucky makes a quiet, hoarse sound of protest, but his eyes drift shut and his body relaxes against Steve; he mumbles something about dinner before he dozes off, then nods when Steve kisses the top of his head and tells him not to worry. 

By the time they make dinner together, then clean up the kitchen, a couple inches of powdery white snow cover the ground. The street lights outside illuminate the flakes as they fall, catching them in the light for a brief, sparkling moment. Everything looks clean and new, pristine. 

Bucky slips his arms around Steve's waist from behind to gaze out the living room window and to watch the snow fall together for a few minutes. 

"Come on, Steve. Let's go to sleep..."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to yesimafan for beta reading and to azile_teacup for reading every single draft of this story and listening to every word count update. <33
> 
>    
> Title from "Sleeping Lessons" by The Shins. 
> 
> A [short playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLS_Dh70d7iEdZdjeLZO35iiJrYYIQc8B6), for anyone curious about the songs that kept playing while I wrote this. 
> 
> This fic fills the "AU: Other" Square on my Round 9 Trope Bingo Card. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


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